


A garden to walk in

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (kind of), Anal Sex, Depression, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Frottage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Injury Recovery, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Harry, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Prostitution, Rimming, Sex work and prejudice, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry's life is not what he thought it would be. Neither is Draco's.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 59
Kudos: 107
Collections: Anonymous





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dearies! The title comes from this quote: "A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in—what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars" by Victor Hugo.  
> I posted this last night and deleted it because of some issues (lmao I'm sorry to the person who'd already commented <3). I'll post a chapter each week!  
> Thank you!  
> (I'm also aware this has been done a billion times but... I needed to. Sorry.)

**1**

The sun glares angrily at Harry, its rays stabbing his eyes and giving him a migraine. It's been years since he's suffered from intense headaches and the feeling is strange, almost foreign. He lifts his hand to cover his eyes and feels instantly relieved.

"I can’t believe you slept through the alarm," Ron says, lowering his wand, which had been pointing at the window. He must have cast the curtains open. "You look like shit. No offense."

“None taken," Harry replies automatically and winces when he hears how raspy his voice sounds, how unused. He coughs to clear his throat and rubs wearily at his face. At last, he grabs his glasses from the bedside table and puts them on.

Ron's features gain definition. He directs the coffee mug he's levitated from the kitchen to Harry’s hands, splashing droplets of liquid everywhere. "Sorry about the milk, you didn't have any."

The coffee tastes exactly as Harry feels. He makes a face at it but drinks it anyway. It’s things like these that make him miss Kreacher terribly. At least when the house-elf was around there was always milk in the house. Really, if he thinks about it, this is Hermione’s fault. She was the one who convinced Harry to let Kreacher spend the summer holidays in Hogwarts, ruling the rest of the castle elves under his iron fist. _They’re preparing menus for the next school year_ , Hermione had said, _Kreacher loves it there, they all listen to him because he’s Harry Potter’s house-elf._

Because of her, Harry has been Kreacher-less for four days since he came home on Monday. Ron knows this, which is why his eyes look more critical than usual. If this were a test, Harry would be failing it. Terribly. What kind of self-governed adult doesn’t go grocery shopping?

"So, mate," Ron starts, sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, hands fidgeting with his wand. Ron only calls him _mate_ when he's serious or nervous. Or both. "What's going on?”

Ron, of course, knows what’s going on. Harry hasn’t answered any Fire-calls since he came back, and he’s missed Sunday lunch at the Burrow five times in a row. He’s been avoiding both Ron and Hermione like the plague. Not that Hermione is that hard to avoid, given how crazy her work schedule is, but Ron has both Fridays and the weekends off. It was only a matter of time before he came over to check on Harry.

There was a time Ron would have shown up, uninvited, just to have a cold beer with Harry, and they would have binge-watched House Doctor on the telly, laughing loudly and eating chips with too much vinegar. Now, however, Ron is here to check on Harry, not to eat junk food or watch bad reality shows. He’s here because Harry worries him, and because he feels guilty. Guilt, Harry thinks, can move mountains.

“There’s nothing going on. I’m just tired. It’s been a long year.”

Ron is kind enough not to mention Harry only started teaching at Hogwarts after the Easter holidays, two months ago. Before that, Harry had been jobless, exactly like he is now.

“Yeah, it’s been awful. Hermione says leap-years are always terrible.” Ron pauses. He looks everywhere but at Harry’s face. “So, er. How’s Hagrid?”

“Fine, I guess. He’s been busy dealing with a pixie infestation.” At least, that’s the last Harry heard from him. He’d only made time to visit Hagrid twice during his time at Hogwarts, but he’s not going to say that to Ron. “He sends his regards.”

“Well, when you see him next term you should—”

"I quit,” Harry says. Ron knows he quit, he even replied to Harry’s letter on the subject. "I guess all the rumors are true. The job _is_ haunted."

Ron doesn’t laugh at Harry’s miserable attempt at humour. Harry's never been good at reading other people's faces, so he's not sure what Ron's frown is supposed to mean. It’s not as disapproving as Hermione’s, which is always a good thing.

"Well, at least you waited until the end of the year to quit. You can think things over during the summer and go back next year. McGonagall won’t hesitate to give you your job back."

 _Maybe that's part of the problem,_ Harry thinks bitterly. He doesn't voice this, taking a sip of his burnt coffee instead. "Yeah," he says, trying to sound lighter than he feels. "Maybe."

Ron sighs. He’s learned the hard way that some battles are just not worth fighting. "Okay. I came over to check on you _and_ to let you know that you're coming out tonight."

"Where?"

"We're going to The Hound for Greg's birthday." He examines Harry's face for a second. "It'll be fun. You can even get blackout drunk if you want to. Hermione won’t be there to stop you this time.”

“She’s not going? I thought she liked Greg.”

Everyone likes Greg. There’s just something infectious about him, something that makes him likable in ways Harry can only dream of being. He reminds Harry a bit of Seamus, not just because of the accent, but because he’s so cheerful. Greg and Ron make a pretty decent team, everyone says so. Harry’s the only one who thinks the team he and Ron made up was better.

“Of course she likes him,” Ron says slowly. “She’s just dealing with a lot at work right now. There are forty-five new trainees under her and, well, you know how she gets.”

"Alright.” He grabs his wand from under the pillow and casts the blinds shut, submerging the room in darkness again. "I'll just sleep until then."

"Eight-thirty," Ron says, and the bed creaks when he gets up. "Don't be late," he warns.

Harry knows he must be thinking about Hermione's promotion party, the one Harry forgot all about until half an hour before it ended. There's no use in trying to explain himself for that again, so he only grunts in response.

"You’ll have fun, Harry.”

Instead of replying, Harry sets his cup on the bedside table and buries his head under the pillow. It wouldn’t be the first time Ron’s wrong about things; he’s never been the best at Divination. If Harry had to bet, all his money would go to the ‘it’s going to suck’ option.

Ron Disapparates with a soft _crack_ and the room falls silent again. No chips, no telly, and definitely no fun—that’s what their friendship boils down to nowadays. In the end, Harry knows he has no one to blame for it but himself.

*****

The Hound is buzzing with magic, music, and alcohol by the time Harry gets there. He tries not to feel bitter when the bouncers let him through without even asking to see his wand. There's a line of over twenty people waiting to get in, but none of them complains as they watch Harry walk past them and into the club.

Inside, Ron's waving at him from the top floor, which Harry knows belongs to the VIP section. He can't help but think that the only reason why Greg has a reservation on a Friday night at The Hound, especially on the top floor, is because of Harry's name being on the guest list. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, which he quickly washes away with the pint Greg pushes into his hand.

"Harry!" the birthday boy laughs rather tipsily. "Good to see you, mate. You never drop by anymore."

Harry gives him a tight smile and looks around, trying to find Ron. Amelia's in the corner, nursing a pink drink in her hands while chatting away happily at a girl Harry's never seen before. Tom and Orwell are also there, bickering, exactly like Harry remembers them doing at the office.

"Where's Ron?" he asks Greg, mouthing over the loud music. _I put a spell on you_ , the song goes, _because you're mine._ It's a cover by The Weird Sisters of an old Muggle song. Harry only knows this because it’s been playing on the wireless for months. " _Ron_ ," he repeats when he realizes Greg hasn't understood him.

"Said he’ll be late,” Greg yells back. He takes Harry’s empty pint and hands him another one, probably his own. Harry doesn't complain. "I think I'm going to get something a bit stronger. Firewhiskey or something."

Orwell stops arguing with Tom and looks up, startled. "Firewhiskey?"

Harry knows he shouldn't get drunk, but it's getting harder to ignore the ache in his stomach when he looks around. He catches a glimpse of Greg's uniform, which he hadn't noticed him wearing before in the confusion of the club scene, and the sight makes Harry heave into his drink. He used to wear one just like that. He used to be one of them.

"I think I'm going to step out for a sec," he says to no one in particular. He doesn't wait to see if they've heard him.

He makes his way down the glass stairs that connect the top floor with the crowded dancefloor, elbowing people when necessary and apologizing when he steps on someone's foot. By the time he's made it outside, he's exhausted. He's pretty sure he heard someone say _Is that Harry Potter?_ when he was walking by, but it's hard to be sure with the music loud enough to make his ears ring.

Cool night air hits him in the face as soon as he slips past the bouncers, and he staggers forwards as if drunk, towards the brick wall opposite to the club’s entrance. Harry concentrates on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, just like they taught him during his Auror training. The night is warm and summer-like, filled with the sounds of people laughing and chattering, and Harry wants to throw up.

He wishes he had a fag with him, wishes he hadn’t let Hermione talk him into quitting the only bad habit he’d picked up after he and Ginny broke up. Harry wouldn’t have given in, had it not been for those damned pamphlets. _Save your lungs: quit smoking_ and _A vice is a vice_ were the most recurrent ones. She’d attach them to her letters and hide them all over Grimmauld Place, claiming she didn’t know how they got there when Harry confronted her about it. Finally, she had shown him pictures of blackened lungs and tumorous throats, and Harry had decided he’d had enough. He too, like Ron, had learned some battles were not worth fighting, especially when it was Hermione he was up against.

Now, clutching at his stomach and feeling like there’s nowhere on this Earth he’d like to be less than here, Harry wonders why he listened to her.

"That's ten galleons short of what we agreed," comes a voice to his right.

It’s the voice that makes him realize he can't hear the club's music, at all, from where he’s standing. There must be at least ten different kinds of silencing charms on the building, something Harry had not noticed when he walked in. It makes sense, he thinks. The neighbors must certainly appreciate it.

Harry turns his head in the direction of the voice. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light in the alley, but when they do Harry can make out two dark figures only a few feet away from him.

"Well, that's all you're going to get," the biggest of the two says. "You're lucky I won't tell Thaddeus about your little incident. _That_ would cost you more than ten bloody galleons, Malfoy."

The man turns around and then he’s gone, disappearing into thin air with a crackling sound.

The name startles Harry so badly he forgets all about the pain in his stomach or how miserable he feels. Surely it can't be him. It can’t be Malfoy. Harry’s luck can’t be so rotten that he runs into Malfoy on his first night out in months. He tries to turn away, begging his feet to cooperate so he can get back inside without being seen, but his eyes are glued to the man approaching the bouncers.

When he steps into the light for the first time, hair shining like the moon above them, there is no doubt in Harry’s brain that this man is indeed Malfoy. He’s wearing Muggle clothes—black skinny jeans, Malfoy’s wearing black skinny _jeans_ —that look like they’ve been tailored just for him. His hair is longer, falling all over his eyes, but he still walks like he owns the ground his feet land on. Malfoy practically glides his way to the bouncers with an elegance Harry can only find familiarly disgusting.

"Tough night?" the dark-haired man guarding the club's door asks. He's three times Malfoy's size, and the contrast between them makes it even harder for Harry to look away.

"No shit," Malfoy laughs. It's a weird thing to witness. Harry doesn't think he's ever heard Malfoy laugh like that before. His back is turned to Harry now, white shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and Harry can make out the fine line of his shoulder blades from where he's standing. "Bloody Aurors," he goes on like he's talking about the weather, "I swear I've yet to meet one whose dick is bigger than a toddler's practice wand."

Harry suddenly snaps out of his dazed state. He steps away from the street lamp's light and turns around, so as to hide his face in case Malfoy decides to look in his direction. Harry stays very still, definitely not listening to Malfoy's conversation, only daring to glance back when he hears the laughter has died down.

Malfoy's no longer there.

Back inside the club, he stops at the bar for two more pints, downs one right there, and sips on the other while he climbs the stairs to Greg's table. The lights are flashing violet and blue, making Harry's head spin. _Or_ it could be the alcohol finally working its way into Harry's bloodstream. He's going to need a lot more alcohol in him before he's ready to talk about what he just saw outside.

"You alright, 'Arry?" Orwell slurs-slash-yells in his ear. He's holding a glass of what Harry can only guess is Firewhiskey. Suddenly, Harry's throat feels very dry. "Looks like you've seen Merlin's ghost."

 _I think I did. Kind of._ "Can I have a shot of that?"

"Sure you can," Tom says. "Shall I get you a double?"

Harry nods at Tom and takes the glass he’s offering. He knows he shouldn't mix beer and whiskey, but he can't bring himself to care. Ron said he could get blackout drunk if he wanted to. After all, Harry thinks bitterly, it's not as though he's got work tomorrow. It's not like he has a job or someone waiting for him at home, worrying about how much he drinks tonight.

"To Greggy," Greg himself says, making sure everyone has their glasses up for the toast. "And to shagging."

Harry downs his double and three pink cocktails that taste suspiciously like cherry and not enough like rum. He tops it all off with another beer and a long sip of Orwell's forgotten Firewhiskey shot. By then, Harry’s almost forgotten about Greg’s uniform and Malfoy’s brief appearance. He’s even forgotten how much he’d like to be anywhere else, a fag between his lips and smoke filling his lungs.

*****

The Burrow looks emptier than usual when Harry decides to make an appearance on Sunday. 

It's been a while since he's visited, and the front garden looks nothing like last time Harry was there. Molly has been making good use of the copy of _Charmingly beautiful gardens_ Hermione got her for her birthday. There are giant blue orchids everywhere and a small batch of dancing flowers on the right side of the garden that looks like it’s still an experiment. He's glad Molly's using her time like that. He’s happy that she's happy.

There was a time when Harry thought he would never see her smile genuinely again, that Fred's death had been too much for her and she would never be the same. The first year had been the toughest, and Harry had made a point of visiting as little as possible, given that his presence seemed to upset Molly more than it soothed her. No one ever said this to Harry, but they didn't have to. Every time he walked through the door the Weasleys would take one look at him and disappointment would flood their faces. They were all expecting someone else to turn up.

"Good to see you're not dead," Hermione says wryly, pulling him into a hug the minute he walks inside. Harry chokes on a mouthful of hair. “You still look hungover."

Harry bites back an annoyed response and, wrapping his arms around her, hugs her back. "I didn’t drink anything at Greg’s party."

"It was a Friday night at the Hound, Harry. You obviously had something to drink, and I know it wasn’t mineral water." She wrinkles her nose as she pulls back. "And Ron always rats you out."

Upon hearing his name, Ron descends the stairs with a comb still in his hand. "I do not!"

Harry smiles at him. "I know. She's upset she missed all the fun."

"Binge-drinking is disgusting. It can permanently damage your liver, and there have been studies—"

Harry cuts her off. "So, who's joining us today?"

"It's just the three of us and my parents," Ron says. "George’s got the flu.”

Ron and Hermione share a look over his head. Harry pretends not to notice.

“And Ginny’s still on tour,” Hermione adds quickly, saving Ron from having to say it himself.

Harry wonders if they know how ridiculous they sound when they act like this, tiptoeing around him like he’s made of glass. Like it hasn’t been a year since he and Ginny called it quits. Every time he’s talked to Ginny since it then—always at social gatherings and mutual friends’ birthday parties—they’ve been nothing but polite to each other. Harry doesn’t hate her, not even a little bit. He tried to, in the beginning, but it felt like too much effort, just like hating Greg had felt like, so Harry had given up trying. And yet Ron and Hermione still hesitate to say her name around him, or invite her to things, or even discuss her victories as the youngest Beater in the Holyhead Harpies, as if Harry would one day snap and make a scene at the mere mention of his ex.

The house is eerily silent all of the sudden, and Harry is once again reminded of how life before the war used to be, how full of laughter and joy. Now all the Weasley kids have grown up and moved out, and the house feels empty like it’s mourning them. Harry wonders how Molly coped that first year after Ginny turned eleven, all her kids gone for the first time. But then, Harry thinks, Molly knew they were coming back. Now is not that simple.

Lunch is Sheperd’s Pie, Arthur’s favourite, and Harry tries to enjoy it. His hands shake slightly when he picks up his cutlery, but that’s nothing new. Maybe Hermione’s right and he’s still hungover from Greg’s party, which would explain why it feels like he’s taken a Bludger to the head. It’s funny how since Ron’s visit on Friday, his head has been hurting on and off, something that hasn’t happened in years. Has Voldemort risen up from the dead when Harry wasn’t paying attention?

"How's Hogwarts, Harry?" Arthur asks him when Molly brings out dessert. "I heard that it's the first year Slytherin's table has been full."

_The first year since the war._

Harry nods as he helps himself to a piece of treacle tart. Ron's already on his second. "Yeah, it's been a good year for Slytherin. Actually, I think they won the House Cup."

Hermione gives him a pointed stare. "You _think_ they won? Don't you work there?"

"I rarely set foot in the Great Hall, so I wouldn’t know.” He doesn’t say why because they’ve all been out in public with him. They know what it’s like. “And I work _ed_ there, Hermione. I don’t anymore.”

Molly, who's been unusually silent throughout lunch, looks up from her plate to stare at his face. "Harry," she says.

Harry looks away, he can't stand the way they're all looking at him now. He knows what they're all thinking, that they're worried about him, and he can't stand it. He's not their responsibility, not anymore. Harry’s not an underfed eleven-year-old, wearing his cousin’s hand-me-downs, nor is he Ginny’s boyfriend. As much as it pains him, the Weasleys are not his family, and Harry shouldn’t burden them with his problems. Not after everything they lost because of him.

Pushing his chair back in a haste, he stands up. "I need a second."

"Harry," Hermione says. "Don't-"

"I'm not going to smoke," he cuts her off. He seems to be doing that an awful lot lately. In his defense, sometimes Hermione needs to be interrupted. If only for the sanity of those around her. "I just need some air."

Ron stands up and follows him out the door. Harry considers telling him to stay inside, but when has Ron ever listened to what Harry says? They walk in silence to the garden and stop near the flowers Harry had been admiring earlier. The air is hot and humid, but Harry feels instantly refreshed despite the summer heat.

"I saw Malfoy outside The Hound the other night," he blurts out when the silence gets too heavy and Ron opens his mouth. He just doesn't want to talk about the whole Hogwarts fiasco, which he knows Ron is going to ask about, and Malfoy seems like the perfect scapegoat. "He looked weird."

Ron frowns. "Well, he's Malfoy. I reckon he's always looked a bit funny."

"Not funny," Harry corrects him. "Weird. He—I don't think I've heard of him since the trials."

"His dad's dead," Ron says, kicking up some dirt in the direction of the dancing flowers. They shake and sway harder. "And his mum is… I don't know about her. She could be dead, I suppose."

"It would have been on the Prophet. Front-page, even."

"Maybe, but I don't read the Prophet, do I? And the Malfoys have been really good at keeping a low profile since the war. Anyways, who cares?" Ron says forcefully. "Was he doing something illegal?"

Harry doesn't know what Malfoy was doing there at all, let alone if it was illegal or not.

"I don't think so."

"Then that's settled. Don't think about it anymore, Harry. The tosser's probably having a hard time adjusting to a world that doesn't give a shit about blood purity."

 _So am I_ , Harry thinks and blanches. "Yeah," he manages to say in a shaky voice. "I guess so. He was fighting with someone over money. I never thought I'd see Malfoy upset over ten galleons."

Except that’s not exactly true, and Harry knows it. Malfoy hadn't sounded upset, he hadn't even looked agitated. Harry remembers his laugh when the bouncer asked him if it had been a tough night. _No shit_ , Harry agrees in his head.

"I'll look into it if you want," Ron says slowly. Harry realizes he's trying to be tactful. Only Aurors are allowed to look into people who act suspiciously. "Maybe Orwell—"

"No. Forget I asked. I was curious, that's all."

They stand in silence for a while. Eventually, Hermione joins them, slipping her hand into Ron's and looking at the troubled sky. There's a sort of electricity in the air, the kind that Harry's always connected to rain. He looks away from Hermione and Ron's intertwined hands, forcing himself to focus on the grey clouds circling over their heads instead.

"I heard you talking about Malfoy," Hermione says. Harry thinks this is somehow worse than being caught smoking. "What was he doing at The Hound? It doesn't seem like his kind of… scenery."

By ‘scenery’, she means that it’s full of Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers, as Malfoy would probably call them. Harry hadn’t thought about that. Once a month the club has a "Muggles only" night. Harry can't think of anyone less likely to visit The Hound than Draco Malfoy, yet that's exactly who Harry saw outside the club on Friday.

"He wasn't _in_ the club," he emphasizes, trying to suppress his annoyance at the fact that they're still talking about Malfoy. Harry only brought him up because he didn't want to talk about other things, didn't want to see the worry on their faces when he explained why he had quit yet another job. "He was outside, arguing with some bloke about the price of something. I was telling Ron he looked off."

Hermione's mouth purses like she's tasted something foul. Finally, after several minutes have gone by, she says, “Illegally off?"

Harry's had enough of this. How do they expect him to know if Malfoy's doing something he shouldn't? Harry hadn't seen him in almost four years. On Friday night Malfoy had looked off, but Harry can hardly be expected to know what kind of offness that was. Malfoy looked different than he had at school, but that was not a crime. Harry’s grown his own hair to a chin-length, has tanned, and split his lip open on his last mission, which is why he now sports a thin scar on the side of his mouth. Change is not illegal, not that Harry's aware of.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , Ron and Hermione are asking all these questions because the last time Harry had come to them about Malfoy’s strange behaviour, they had both turned a blind eye to it. And Bill’s face had suffered the consequences.

"No," Harry concludes. He shouldn’t have said anything to them without evidence, not even if it’s Malfoy he’s pointing his finger at. "I have to go now, but tell your mum lunch was amazing."

Ron looks at him, maybe for the first time that day. "Tell her yourself."

But Harry's already started to walk away—from them, from the house, from everything.

"Thank you for today," he says before the familiar pressure of Apparition takes over.

*****

It's two days after his birthday when Harry sees Malfoy outside The Hound again.

Harry walks out of the club because he's had too much to drink, _again_ , and he needs to feel the fresh air against his skin or he's going to throw up. The bouncers are the same as last time, but they don't nod in his direction when he walks past them, thanks to three layers of carefully applied Glamour spells. Instead, they stand near the entrance, engrossed in a discussion about the last Quidditch match of the season.

He sits on the curb and puts his head in his hands, trying to stop nausea from taking over. He either needs to stop drinking so much ( _ha!_ ) or start buying some Vomit-No-More, George’s newest invention. _It works great as an antidote to the Puking Pastilles_ , he’d told Harry, _but it’s also amazingly good at preventing broom-sickness and hangovers._

When the world goes awfully silent around him, Harry lifts his head out of his hands and looks around, trying to make out what’s happened to make them stop quarreling so abruptly. Breathing in and out a couple of times, Harry cranes his neck to get a better look at them. There’s a man with them—a blond, elegant, and familiar-looking man.

It’s Malfoy, of course.

"Auror?" One of the bouncers asks, and Harry hates himself for turning around fully like _he_ 's being discussed. Harry's not an Auror. There's no way the man could have been talking to or about him.

Malfoy's wearing the tightest pair of trousers Harry has ever seen. Harry briefly wonders if Malfoy’s enchanted them to look like that; he wouldn't put it past Malfoy to waste magic on something so vain. Even from where Harry's sitting, with only the poor illumination The Hound’s neon sign provides, he can see the shadow of a nasty bruise on Malfoy's jaw.

"Healer," Malfoy says, still failing to notice Harry sitting just a few feet away. Malfoy stretches, pale hands pointing upwards like he's reaching for the sky. "They know where to hit, I’ll give them that much."

Malfoy’s mouth looks especially red, but it could be the sign’s fault—everything looks red under it, tinged by its light. Harry stands up slowly, trying to avoid making noise, not because he's scared Malfoy will recognize him. Harry just doesn't want to be around Malfoy, never has and probably never will. The bastard has the innate ability to get on Harry’s nerves just by existing in close proximity.

Besides, Harry's pretty sure whatever Malfoy's talking about can't be good, and if Harry sticks around and accidentally overhears him say something explicitly illegal, he'll have to intervene. Correction: he'll have to let Ron know so he can intervene. Harry can’t do anything, not even if Malfoy admits to cold-blooded murder right to his face.

"Thank Merlin's beard this is my last night in this shithole," Malfoy goes on. He gives the bouncers a fake smile that is clearly supposed to be sympathetic. "Sorry I can't say the same for you."

The bouncers laugh. "Mate, I'd rather stand here for the rest of my life, yelling at underage kids for trying to sneak in, than have _your_ job."

Harry can practically _hear_ the smile in Malfoy's voice when he speaks again. "Yeah, well, how does the saying go? Find a job you enjoy doing and you won't work a day in your life."

Harry decides he's heard enough. He walks past Malfoy, who reeks of cologne, and pushes the door open, slipping back into the club without looking back. The nameless witch he had been dancing with is waiting for him with a scowl on her face, but it dissolves when she spots him elbowing his way through the crowd.

“Where were you?” she asks in a whiny voice, barely loud enough for Harry to hear her over the roaring music. “I’m thirsty and you promised me a drink.”

"Went out for a smoke," he breathes into her ear, aware that she’ll know he’s lying. He doesn’t smell like he’s been smoking. “Firewhiskey shots?” Harry offers, and she forgets all about his absence.

Malfoy's nowhere to be seen when he walks back outside. Harry can't help but feel lucky.

*****

"Have you seen _Fightclub_?" he asks Hermione, sitting on the edge of her desk. He watches her scribble her signature at the bottom of the report she’s been writing since Harry walked into her office thirty minutes ago. One of her trainees was caught snogging a patient on her lunch break. “You know, David Fincher’s film about—"

"—an illegal fight club? The title is pretty self-explanatory, Harry." She hasn't looked up from her paper yet. Harry's glad, it’s easier to talk this way, without her eyes piercing holes through his soul. "It's a good movie, I guess."

"I think Malfoy's involved in one."

Hermione's hand, which is holding her quill, freezes over the parchment. She looks up and stares at Harry's face so intently he can’t help but squirm. "What?"

"I saw him outside The Hound again last week," Harry says quickly. Her expression doesn't soften. If anything, her frown deepens. "He said some things that made me think he might be, you know, getting into illegal fights. For money. Which is illegal," he finishes, hoping he doesn't sound as pathetic as he feels.

“Did you go out alone?”

“Yes, but I—”

Hermione shakes her head. “Harry, you know how dangerous that is. Did you even tell Ron you were going?”

“I was careful,” Harry says, closing his eyes and counting to fifty. When he opens them again, Hermione’s still looking at him in disbelief. “Nothing happened to me. I saw Malfoy there again. _That_ ’s what I want to talk about.”

"Why are you telling me this?"

Harry knows what she's asking. He decides to play dumb. "Because you're my friend?"

"Ron's also your friend, last time I checked."

"Yeah, well. He’s probably busy. _So,_ what do you think?"

Hermione stands up from her desk, her report completely forgotten, and walks all the way around the desk to face Harry. "I'm not in Law Enforcement, there's nothing I can do about it. I think… If you have enough evidence you should probably send a tip by owl to Ron’s department." She pauses like she’s waiting for Harry to object to her calling it _Ron’s_ department. When it becomes clear that Harry won’t have a mental breakdown over her phrasing, she asks, "What did Malfoy say exactly?"

Harry gives her a brief summary of what he heard. "I've been thinking about it all week," Harry says, only realizing what he’s admitted to when the words are already out of his mouth. "He implied it's a job he enjoys doing, and the bruise on his face was definitely work-related. What kind of job could it be?" He doesn't give Hermione time to comment, babbling on like a child on too much sugar. "I've been reading up on some cases in France. Illegal dueling is popular over there. Turns out you can make good money if you commit to it. I just… I have a feeling about this, 'Mione. Malfoy’s up to something."

 _Again_ , he adds in his head.

Hermione is staring at him with eyes turned soft by pity. Unlike Ron, she hasn’t lost the ability to look Harry in the face, which is both good and bad, depending on the occasion. Right now it’s bad because she’s looking at Harry like he’s some kind of miserable, pitiful creature, something to feel sorry for.

Anger surges through him, hot and viscous. "Don't look at me like that," he snaps at her, jumping off her desk and trying to sidestep her to get to the door. He's never talked to her like this before, and it scares him, but he can’t bring himself to stop. "If you thought it was stupid you could have just said so."

Hermione, blocking his way with her arm, says, "I don't think it's stupid. I only want… Harry, not being an Auror is not the end of the world. You're so much more than that."

"We're talking about Malfoy, not me."

Harry knows not being an Auror is not the end of the world. In fact, there are millions of people out there who aren’t: Healers and teachers and academics. Harry happens to be one of those people. And he’s not dying, is he? It’s not the end of the world. Harry is… adapting. By this time next year, he'll be working somewhere else, doing something he enjoys even more than running after Dark Wizards and leading raids, or whatever it is Ron’s up to these days. _Find a job you love doing and you won't work a day in your life_ , Malfoy had said.

Harry is yet to find it, that’s all.

“I don’t care about Malfoy, I care about _you_. You’re my friend, Harry, and it kills me to see you like this. I know how hard the last few years have been for you, but you have to—”

"I'm sorry," he says mechanically. Must, should and have to are Hermione’s favourite verbs when it comes to him. They’re also tell-tale signs that she needs to be interrupted. "You're right, I should talk to Ron about this."

Hermione slumps against her desk, defeated. This is what she wanted, but at the same time, it’s not. She wants Harry to talk to Ron, but not about this, not about Malfoy. She wants things to be the way they were before—although which of all the before-s she’s thinking of is beyond Harry—but she knows they can’t be. Just like Harry does.

“Are we still having lunch?”

“I think I better go,” Harry says, not meeting her gaze. “I may be able to catch Ron before his break is over.”

Hermione drops her arm to her side, letting him through to the door. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

Harry takes the Floo directly to the Ministry from St. Mungo’s, wanting to be done with the whole thing, and keeps his head down as he makes his way to the Auror Headquarters.

Ron’s joking around with Greg while simultaneously taking huge bites of his turkey sub when Harry comes into their—Ron and Greg’s, not Ron and Harry’s—office. There are papers of all kinds littering the floor, along with balled-up notes and used napkins. The whole place looks like a pigsty, and Harry misses it so much his chest hurts. The ache only intensifies when he notices their red cloaks on the hanger by the door.

"Harry," Greg says, his mouth hanging open to reveal what Harry can only guess are the remains of a cheese toastie. "Good to see you, mate! Been a while since you dropped by."

Ron seems taken aback by Harry's visit. He swallows hastily, says, "Hey, what're you doing here?"

Harry smiles at them and closes the door behind him. He refuses Ron's offer to sit down, opting instead to stand, his hands in his pockets, trying not to look as awkward as he feels. Last time he was in this room, he had still been Ron’s partner, and they all know it.

He decides to go straight to the point. "I think Malfoy's involved in illegal dueling. I heard him outside the Hound the other day and I know he’s up to something.”

Ron and Greg share a look. For a moment, Harry has the urge to laugh because they look too much like a married couple discussing their child, but the urge disappears as quickly as it came. There’s nothing funny about the way they’re both looking at Harry now.

"Okay," Ron says. "Well. You have to fill in a report and all that. I think we have the forms on Tom's desk."

It's not what Ron says but what he doesn’t that makes Harry uncomfortable. Shouldn't Ron ask Harry exactly what he overheard the other night? Shouldn't Ron be a little more excited at the thought of catching Malfoy in something this big? It _is_ big, Harry tells himself after he's summoned an empty report card. There have been trials going on for months in France, with sentences as hard as ten years behind bars with no possibility of parole. Illegal dueling _is_ dangerous.

"Thanks," Harry says. He waits for Ron to say something else, but he seems to have forgotten Harry’s even there, completely engrossed by the crumbs on his desk instead. "I'll, uh, owl this to you when I'm done."

"Hope you're right, Harry," Greg supplies, grinning from ear to ear. "Malfoy's been out of Azkaban for too long if you ask me."

 _No one’s asked you_ , Harry says in his head. Outwardly, he smiles and nods.

*****

If anyone were to ask Harry what he’s doing, he’d most likely lie about it. He's not keen on sharing with anyone that he's been trying (and failing) to hunt Malfoy down for the past two weeks. In the end, he never got around to owling the report to Ron, telling himself he should be able to provide some kind of tangible evidence that could back up his claims about Malfoy's irregular activities. So far, no one’s asked him about it. Harry’s convinced Ron and Hermione think he's forgotten about it, which is exactly what he wants. The less they know about this, the better.

The bouncers at The Hound looked at him like he'd grown a second head when he went to the club asking about Malfoy. He had been careful not to mention the whole dueling hypothesis, coming up instead with some tale about Malfoy owing him money. Both men said at first that Malfoy didn't work there, but after a while hesitantly confessed that he didn't work here _anymore_. In exchange for some autographs and the promise to not tell how he got the information, they gave Harry the directions to find Malfoy.

That's how Harry has ended up outside Grimoire’s every night this week. He doesn't let himself be seen, instead choosing to wait across the street from where the club's located. The outside of the club, which is the only thing Harry can see, looks nothing like The Hound's. There's no one in line to get in, and there are also no bouncers guarding the entrance. If it weren't for the black sign hanging over the door, Harry would never have guessed the place was a nightclub. The Silencing Charms feel stronger than those at The Hound, which Harry can’t say surprises him given that this place is much bigger and therefore the music must be louder.

Harry has no way of knowing if Malfoy's already inside or if he's coming at all tonight, yet here he is, for the fourth night on a row, lurking in the shadows like a creep. If being an Auror taught Harry anything is that once one feels a hunch, one better stick to it. And that's exactly what Harry is feeling right now, a hunch so strong it feels like knowledge, like a certainty. Malfoy will show up tonight.

However, he's not expecting Malfoy to see him first.

"Potter," a voice to his right calls. A voice Harry would know anywhere.

Harry goes as rigid as the wall he’s been lounging against for the past two hours. The name is out of his mouth before Harry can stop it. "Malfoy."

Malfoy's wearing a variation of the trousers Harry saw him wearing last time, definitely a tighter version, paired with a dress shirt almost as white as his skin. He looks posh in a Muggle way, which is baffling not because of the poshness but because he’s wearing Muggle clothes. Again.

Now that Harry can see his face properly, he realizes Malfoy’s fashion choices are not the only things that have changed over the years. Malfoy’s face looks different in subtle ways, like the way his mouth seems fuller and his cheekbones more pronounced. Even his eyelashes look thicker, more curled. Harry wonders if he’s wearing mascara.

Malfoy rests his shoulder against the wall. "Fancy seeing you here. If I didn't know any better I’d say you've been following me."

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Harry says, trying to make the scowl on his face look convincing. He can’t believe he let Malfoy, of all people, sneak up on him like this. Whether Malfoy Apparated or simply walked up to Harry doesn’t matter; Harry didn’t hear a thing. "How would I even know you work here?"

Malfoy gives him a long, hard stare. "I don't."

"What?"

"I don't work here," he says patiently, like Harry's stupidity amazes him. "Why, you thought I was some sort of bartender?"

Harry breathes in slowly. He has to be calm if he wants this to go well, and Merlin knows he can't afford to fuck this up. This is not Hogwarts, this is the real world. He could get into serious trouble if Malfoy decides to accuse him of harassment.

Stalling for time, Harry says, "It's been what, three years?"

"Four," Malfoy corrects him. His big grey eyes travel all the way up from Harry's shoes to the top of his head. "You've grown your hair.”

It’s such a common thing to say, so devoid of the usual derision Malfoy’s words were always drenched in, Harry has no clue what to say back. Malfoy’s sneer is hardly a sneer at all, more like a lopsided smile, and Harry is so thrown off by it all he can’t, for the life of him, come up with anything witty to say.

"Uh, yeah."

"It looks…" Malfoy starts to say, and Harry’s heart soars in his chest because insults are something he can work with, but the snide remark never comes. "How did you end up here, Potter?"

"A friend recommended this place," Harry lies. "I thought I'd check it out."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. "Is The Boy Who Lived truly this desperate? Who would have thought? I guess not even saving the Wizarding World is enough to get people to look past your ugly face, Potter." He pauses, massaging his chin as if in deep thought. "Actually, I think your personality might be worse than your looks."

Relief at being called names again and confusion at Malfoy’s words merge inside Harry, leaving him unable to speak. What is Malfoy even talking about? He’s making fun of Harry, that much is clear, but nothing he’s saying makes any sense. Not even the bit about Harry's looks. If he’s taunting Harry for trying to join his stupid dueling club, why would he mention Harry’s physical appearance? Since when do looks matter in magic combat?

"Fuck off," Harry bites back because it's all he can think of. He’d almost forgotten how stimulating bickering with Malfoy is. "I've got money and I want to do this."

Malfoy's eyes seem to sparkle with delight. His smirk is wide and taunting, closer to a sneer than before. "You want to do _what_ , exactly?"

"I…" Harry licks his lips, blood drumming in his ears like he's got a second heart inside his skull. _I want to fight you, I want to stop feeling like a waste of space_. "I want to—"

"Draco!" a girl calls, sticking her head out Grimoire's door. Harry's never seen her before despite having practically camped out here for the last four nights. Her voice is loud and impossible to ignore, even from across the street. "Get your bloody arse in here right now. Thadd said your shift isn't over yet.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. Turning back to Harry, he says, "I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the opportunity of charging you an extravagant amount on money, Potter. Hopefully, you'll find something else to spend your billions of galleons on."

"Wait," Harry says, his hand stretched out towards Malfoy before he can stop himself. His face flushes accordingly. "When can I—"

"Draco!" The girl yells again, even louder than last time. She sounds like she swallowed three Howlers. "If you don't come here right this second…"

"Coming," Malfoy says, not looking away from Harry’s face. "I don't know, Potter. I'm a very busy man, as you can see. I can't say it's been a pleasure."

Harry watches him go inside without another word, wondering why he’s doing this to himself and yet knowing he won’t be able to stop. There's no way he's going to let Malfoy get away with this. No way in hell.

Two hours later, when it becomes clear Malfoy isn’t coming back out, Harry decodes to go home.

He eats his supper -overcooked ramen noodles with salt and pepper because there’s nothing else in his pantry- without sitting down. He feels fidgety, energized and _reassured._ Malfoy's words play in his brain on a loop, a broken record that offers little more than a myriad of insults. He knows telling Ron would be the right thing to do. Harry should fill in the report, owl it to the Aurors, and forget about Malfoy.

And Harry will do all those things. _After_ beating Malfoy's arse in combat.

So what if he gets a little too much joy out of dueling with his school nemesis? What will Shacklebolt do about it if he finds out what Harry’s up to? Fire him _again_?

Later that night, when he’s lying in his bed in the dark, Harry goes over every single spell he’d like to use on Malfoy when the time comes. For the first time in months, if not years, he falls asleep quickly and without too much tossing around. He’d almost forgotten how good having a purpose feels like.


	2. 2

**2**

They meet again on Thursday.

When Malfoy shows up outside Grimoire’s at two in the morning, wearing Muggle clothes and having done something Harry can’t quite pinpoint to his hair, Harry seriously considers hexing the git’s eyebrows off. It’s been three nights—three terrible, stiflingly hot, and anxiety-filled nights—since they talked, and Harry has done nothing but hang around Grimoire’s, drenched in his own sweat, waiting for Malfoy to show his face again.

On this particular night, the fourth one, Harry starts to entertain the thought that Malfoy is avoiding him. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to come up with reasonable explanations for Malfoy's absence. One minute Harry is certain Malfoy has figured out he’s trying to set him up, thus relocating his illegal club to Albany, and the next he’s absolutely sure Malfoy is just a coward who’s been scared off by Harry’s presence the other night.

This time Harry is focused enough to hear the familiar _crack_ that signals Apparition, and he uses this to his advantage. The other night Harry had been taken by surprise; he’d let his guard down because he hadn’t expected Malfoy to turn up at all, let alone so silently. Turning his head to the right, where the sound came from, Harry considers which one would Malfoy miss the most: his eyebrows or his eyelashes.

"I can't imagine having so much free time and spending it as you do, Potter. Have you considered getting a life? You need to find a hobby," Malfoy says, coming towards him in the poorly-lit alley. He lounges against the wall, exactly like he did last time, and cranes his neck to both sides as if trying to get rid of a cramp. He’s close enough for Harry to smell his cologne again. "Or a lover."

"That's why I came here," Harry says, focusing on the _hobby_ part of Malfoy's suggestion. His wand pulses in his pocket, eager to be used. "Tough night?" Harry asks when he looks at him and realizes Malfoy’s sporting a brand new bruise over his cheek. "Lost the fight, huh?"

Malfoy gives him a tight, composed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Even now, with one side of his face bruised, he looks grotesquely good. Surprisingly, he ignores Harry’s taunts and says, almost idly, "Where did we leave off the other night?"

"You said you wanted to charge me a ridiculous amount of money," Harry supplies. "I never got to say I'd pay it."

Malfoy tilts his head, frowning. He opens his mouth to say something and hesitates. Instead, he laughs. "Fuck it. It's fifty galleons."

Harry shrugs. "Fine. How many rounds does that cover?"

Malfoy looks at him like he's grown a second head. Maybe he has if he thinks paying fifty galleons to fight this git is a good idea. It’s stupidly expensive, roughly around two hundred pounds, but it’s not like Harry doesn’t have that kind of money lying around. 

"One?" Malfoy says tentatively.

Harry shrugs again. He'll take what he can get. "Alright."

"Right," is all Malfoy says for a while. He keeps looking at Harry with a weird expression. His frown deepens when Harry starts to move towards Grimoire's door. "What in the bloody hell are you doing, you fool?"

"Well, we're not doing it in the middle of the street, are we?"

"I told you I don't work there, Potter. Is your only remaining brain cell really that damaged?"

Harry groans. "Cut the shit, Malfoy. The other night you walked right in—"

"That's where I get names and addresses, bloody idiot. Merlin, is this your first time doing this or what?" He holds his hands up to stop Harry from replying. His fingers are long and bony, pianist-like. "I don't even want to know."

"Of course this my first time," Harry says hotly. How can Malfoy be so obtuse? "I am— _was_ an Auror."

Malfoy cackles at that, holding his stomach and bending forward with the force of his laughter. “Only you, Potter,” he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, shoulders still shaking. “For a while there I thought you were someone on Polyjuice, but it’s obviously you.”

Harry feels his face go up in flames. “Shut up. I don’t usually condone this kind of activity.”

“Usually,” Malfoy echoes. He shakes his head as if trying to clear it and says, "Alright, let's do this. I have other things to do tonight.”

Malfoy steps closer to Harry, takes a hold of his arm, and Apparates them away without saying another word. His fingers feel warm wrapped around Harry’s elbow and Harry focuses on them when the darkness swirls and presses around him. 

Once his feet are touching solid ground, Harry yanks his arms away, sputtering and coughing. "Are you daft? You should have warned me you were going to do that!"

Looking around, Harry realizes they're standing in the middle of a spacious bedroom. The bed is neatly made, its white sheets almost glowing in the dark, and the rug under his feet looks expensively exotic. The moonlight filters through a huge arched window, out of which Harry can only see a grove of birch trees. It takes Harry only a second to realize it’s an enchanted view.

"What are we doing here?"

Malfoy has already toed off his shoes and is stretching his arms behind his back. "Well, _we_ aren’t doing anything until you give me those fifty galleons we talked about."

Harry looks around, baffled. "Why _here_?"

Malfoy follows Harry’s gaze. "I suppose we could have gone to your place," he admits more to himself than to Harry. "But I don't usually do it like that. You know, 'hex me once, shame on you' kind of precaution."

"I… this isn't—what the hell? Shouldn't there be more people here? I thought people paid to watch this stuff."

"Why am I not surprised that Saint Potter likes an audience?"

"Well, who decides who's won then? Or is it a last-man-standing kind of thing?"

Malfoy freezes. He tries to be subtle about his shock, but the stiffness of his shoulders and the twitch of his mouth give him away. Discreetly, Malfoy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wand. The silence between them stretches on until it becomes unbearable.

"Potter.” His fingers go impossibly white around his wand. "Why do you think we’re here tonight?"

Harry reaches for his wand too but doesn't raise it. "To duel?" In a haste, he adds, “Illegally.”

Malfoy takes a step back and bumps into a wardrobe. He looks around like he's trying to remember how Harry got here in the first place. His eyes are narrowed, which tells Harry Malfoy's trying to concentrate. It's the same expression he used to wear during Potions when brewing something extremely delicate. 

"I know you're not an Auror anymore," he says with enough force to startle Harry. He raises his wand but doesn’t point it at Harry. With a strange feeling of déjà vu, Harry realizes Malfoy’s hand is shaking. "I don't know what you want from me but I've done my time, Potter. I don't need any of your vigilante bullshit."

"What?"

"Shut up," Malfoy says in a clipped voice. There are blotches of red on his cheeks but otherwise, he looks sickly pale. "I'm going to touch your arm and we're going to Apparate outside Grimoire’s. Then, you're going to stay the fuck away from me."

Harry takes a step forward, only realizing he's crowding Malfoy against the wardrobe when it’s too late. "I'm not going to stop, you know. If you think that I'll turn a blind eye to an illegal fight ring then you're a foolish idiot."

"I'm not—" 

"People could die if they haven't already. Do you even know how easy it is for duelling to get out of hand? In France—"

"Potter."

"—a wizard was murdered by four others last month. Four to one!"

"Potter."

"I can't imagine why you're doing this, it's not like you _need_ the money, and you always sucked at Defense—"

" _Potter."_

"—which means that you're either trying to get better at it or—"

"I'm a fucking whore, Potter," Malfoy spits out, shoving Harry so hard he stumbles back several steps, finally landing on the bed. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm not involved in it."

Harry pushes himself off the bed. The _bed_ . "There's no way _you_ —"

Malfoy lets out a humourless laugh. He won’t meet Harry’s eyes. "Not everything got better after the war. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're just as privileged now as you were back then."

Harry would laugh at that if he didn't feel like someone had punched him in the gut. Privileged? Wasn't Malfoy the one who grew up in a Manor, with both his parents and enough money to get him everything he ever wanted? Harry wouldn't call sleeping in a cupboard and getting scraps for dinner luxuries.

"You expect me to believe you're a prostitute _and_ that you were going to willingly have sex with me?" Harry reflects out loud. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Malfoy's face falls. The red that had coloured his cheeks minutes ago is now gone. There's something like dejection in his voice when he speaks again. "Believe what you want. Give me your arm."

"No."

"Potter.” He moves to get a hold of Harry's arm, but Harry steps away just in time to avoid his hand. "I don't have time for this."

"This is bloody ridiculous. Just admit you're duelling.”

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the ends of it, like an exasperated child. When he notices his shoes lying on the floor, he crouches down and slips them on, carefully avoiding making eye contact with Harry.

"I'm not duelling."

"Malfoy."

"I meant what I said," he says firmly. "Give me your arm."

"You're not a prostitute," Harry blurts out, indignant. He can't stop looking at Malfoy and thinking about the bloody bed and the way Malfoy's eyes had sparkled when Harry had said he wanted to do _it_. Nausea rolls over him. "It's just not… you're a Malfoy."

By the end of Harry's broken monologue, it becomes clear Malfoy's had enough. He has mastered his expression once more, giving nothing away. Even his posture is impeccable. “I don't have to explain myself to you."

It's the last thing he says before plunging forward and locking Harry in a tight embrace. When the dark tunnel that has become Harry's vision clears, they're standing outside Grimoire's again. 

Malfoy pushes him against the grimy wall. He presses his arm to Harry's throat, closing off Harry’s air supply and successfully shutting him up. Malfoy holds the tip of his want to Harry's cheek. If it had a sharp end, Harry would be bleeding already.

"You're going to mind your own business," Malfoy whispers into Harry's ear, "and you're not going to come around here again. Got it, Potter?" He listens as Harry coughs in response. "Good."

Malfoy steps back and Harry falls to his knees, inhaling so hard his throat burns with every breath he takes. Harry suddenly feels stupid and embarrassed, something he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Embarrassed, because he’s only now remembered Malfoy’s not the only one who owns a wand.

By the time Harry’s pulled himself off the ground Malfoy’s already gone.

*****

The peas on his plate are a washed-out green colour, something Harry’s found all peas that come from a tin have in common. He can’t remember when the last time he had real peas for dinner or lunch was but it must have been years ago, probably when he was still a student at Hogwarts. Peas must not be very popular nowadays, he thinks, going over all the meals the school elves prepared for him and brought to his rooms this year. It’s been so long since he’s had real peas, not this mushy, industrialized version of them, that Harry can’t remember if he even likes them. He stabs a solitary pea and brings it his mouth, tasting absolutely nothing.

Harry's attention drifts from the food on his plate. It's been a tough couple of weeks. He had hoped by now his brain would have stopped fixating on _The Malfoy Thing_ , as Harry likes to call it, but it hasn't. Instead, Harry’s brain has decided to remind him of what happened at least twenty times a day. He can’t seem to get away from the memory of Malfoy’s furious face as he pinned Harry to the wall. Not even in his dreams. 

Stalking Malfoy had offered a distraction so time-consuming Harry had forgotten all about being miserable for the first time in months. He’d had a purpose, and now that it's gone Harry misses it more than he had thought possible. 

After he got home that Thursday—also known as _The Dark Night_ —Harry had been so shocked he couldn’t think properly, so he'd simply staggered off to bed, falling asleep the second his head hit the pillow. He had slept uncomfortably, fully dressed, and had woken up the next morning with a headache so intense he thought his brains would leak out of his ears. Naturally, thinking of nothing but Malfoy for the next forty-eight hours only made things worse.

There are some things that just don’t add up, but Harry now knows Malfoy hadn’t been lying when he said he was an escort. There is no way, Harry reasons, that Malfoy would admit to something so humiliating if it wasn't the truth. In a way, although Harry would never say it aloud, he feels bad for Malfoy. It’s an unwanted and foreign feeling, but it exists. Being on the giving end of pity feels bizarre; it’s usually the other way around for Harry.

Harry stabs another pea, puts it in his mouth, and struggles to find its flavour. There’s something else bothering him, has been for days, and it’s not going away. It’s how willing Malfoy had seemed to have sex with him that is really freaking him out. Harry’s tried to reason that maybe Malfoy was a lot more desperate than he led on, desperate enough to shag Harry if it meant he got fifty galleons out of it, but there’s something about the way Malfoy behaved that night that has Harry questioning everything. The memory of Malfoy’s bruised face makes Harry’s stomach flip over.

"Kreacher," he says to the empty kitchen. He startles himself, accidentally bumping his knee on the too-low table. Unsure of whether this will even work, Harry clears his throat and tries again, this time louder. “ _Kreacher_.”

Kreacher pops into existence next to Harry. "Yes, Master Potter?"

Kreacher makes a face, the kind he used to make when Harry told him off for barging into rooms without knocking first, as he takes in the state of the kitchen. 

Harry, who still can’t believe it worked, beams at him. “Hi. I’m sorry I dragged you all the way here.”

The elf sniffs. “Kreacher can’t ignore Master Potter’s call.”

"Er, yeah, I know. I just need to ask you some stuff,” Harry says. “Do you know who Draco Malfoy is?”

Kreacher's eyes widen and his grin becomes so big it threatens to take up his whole face. It’s the most disturbing thing Harry’s ever seen. "Oh, yes. Kreacher knows the Malfoys very well. Kreacher's been with the Blacks for a long time."

Harry stares at him, cursing at himself for being so stupid. "You served the Black family when Narcissa, Andromeda, and Bellatrix lived together, right?"

Kreacher only nods in response. Harry forbade him to speak of his Mistress in this house.

"How is Narcissa Malfoy?"

Kreacher's grin disappears. "Oh, it is so terrible! She is a pure-blood, the finest of her sisters after…" _Bellatrix._ "Her reputation—"

She's alive, then. That’s all Harry needs to know. "And her son?"

"Kreacher doesn't know about the boy," he replies, sulking because Harry cut him off. "The boy hasn't produced an heir, or so Kreacher has been told."

"Do they still live at the Manor?"

Kreacher shakes his head so hard Harry's afraid his neck will snap. "Malfoy Manor is… it was seized, _seized by the Muggle-lovers_ —"

"Kreacher," Harry interrupts him once more, this time more forcefully. "That's enough."

Kreacher's mouth closes shut at the implicit order in Harry's voice. He turns around and murmurs in a low voice so Harry can't understand what he's saying, walking in tight circles. 

"Do you know where Malfoy lives?" 

Kreacher stops his pacing and looks up from the floor. "Kreacher doesn't know," he says. "But Kreacher can find out."

"How exactly would you…?"

"Other house-elves respect Kreacher." His big, snouty nose points upwards with pride. Neither of them mentions the only reason Kreacher is so well-liked among his kind is he’s Harry’s house-elf. “Kreacher will ask around.”

"I'd appreciate that," Harry says awkwardly. He doesn’t really care what Kreacher thinks of him, but Harry knows Kreacher must be coming up with wild ideas to explain Harry’s sudden interest in Malfoy. "Thank you," he adds, but Kreacher’s already gone.

Harry's halfway done with the dishes—he likes doing it the muggle way sometimes to keep his mind off other things—when a loud popping sound startles him. He turns around, wiping his soapy hands on the front of his shirt, and finds Kreacher standing there with a smug smile on his face.

"90 Gloucester Road, Master Potter," Kreacher says proudly. “That's where Draco Malfoy lives." He grimaces when he notices Harry’s doing the dishes by hand. “Kreacher must go now.”

Harry nods. “Thank you for coming.”

“Kreacher is not allowed to ignore Master Potter’s call,” he says for the second time. Wrinkling his wedge-shaped nose in distaste, he Disapparates, eyes still fixed on Harry’s dripping hands.

When the dishes are clean and dry, Harry decides to write the letter, afraid he’ll chicken out if he waits another hour. He goes into the study, grabs a piece of parchment and a self-filling quill, and sits down at the desk to write. 

> ~~_Dear Draco Malfoy_ ~~
> 
> ~~_Dear Malfoy_ ~~
> 
> _Malfoy,_
> 
> _This is for wasting your time the other night._
> 
> ~~_All the best_ ~~
> 
> _Good luck,_
> 
> _— Harry Potter._

In the attic, Hoot pecks at its feathers. She’s irritable because it’s summer and Harry forgot to buy her favourite biscuits when he went grocery shopping a few days ago. He forgot to pick up a lot of things, including milk. Harry slips fifty galleons into the envelope and charms it to stay light as well as closed. 

“I need you to deliver this to 90 Gloucester Road.”

The owl ignores him.

“ _Please_.”

Hoot shoots him a dirty look but grudgingly takes the letter from Harry’s hand. She makes a big show of drinking from her water bowl as if to let Harry know what a pain in the arse flying through a heat-wave is and then she’s off. 

Malfoy wasted a whole shift—or whatever they're called in his line of work—because of Harry. If Malfoy’s selling his arse for a living, haughty and snobbish as he’s always been, he probably needs those fifty galleons. 

Some invisible weight seems to have been lifted off Harry’s shoulders at the thought of Malfoy accepting the money. Perhaps this way Harry can go back to pretending Malfoy doesn’t exist and, finally, stop having weird dreams about the git’s bruised face and shaking hands. 

Hoot returns half an hour later with a letter. She’s reluctant to give it to Harry but gives in when he offers her a piece of bread to munch on. He untangles the note from her leg, almost cutting himself with the paper in his haste. His fingers brush against the galleons first, the coldness of the metal startling him so badly he retrieves his hand as if he's been burned. Malfoy’s sent the money back.

> _Potter,_
> 
> _I don't need your charity. Don't contact me again._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Draco Malfoy_

Well. So much for being nice.

*****

Harry goes back to his routine. 

He wakes up every day at one p.m sharp, eats lunch, and takes a nap. It had taken Harry months to get used to taking naps during the day, but one day he discovered it was only a matter of wanking his cock raw and _then_ trying to sleep. He wakes up from his two-hour naps at around five, just in time for tea. Then, he either listens to a sports program on the wireless or stares at the ceiling until it’s time for supper. Finally, Harry heads back to his room and falls asleep, only to do it all over again the next day.

Ron comes over to check on him once a week, usually on Friday, and never stays for long. Harry set up an alarm system on his Floo a couple of months back, which lets him know if someone's coming the second they say his address. It gives Harry a sixty-second advantage, enough to cast a Scourgify on himself and open the windows to let air and light in. 

He wishes things were different, that he had the motivation to do things and owl his friends back and not be this sad half-person he currently is. When Ron comes by Harry has a hard time not asking him work-related questions, which means they always end up talking about the same two things: Quidditch and Hermione. 

Hermione’s Healer career has taken off in the past two years, and she barely has time to do anything but work. She drops in every now and then, alternating between trying to get Harry to find a job and complaining about how tired she is. St. Mungo’s is always brimming with problems, just like the Ministry. Harry sometimes tunes Hermione out when she starts ranting; it’s too close for comfort. 

Hermione is the one who usually forces Harry to shower and go grocery shopping. In her eyes, Harry’s been reduced to something that needs to be tended to. Like a plant. Harry doesn’t complain, not because it doesn’t annoy him but because he’s too tired to start an argument with her. Hermione’s ferocious when she argues. Harry can only imagine what her quarrels with Ron are like behind closed doors.

Lately, Harry’s also been awfully busy reading old copies of the _Prophet_. He requested all the titles featuring Malfoy's name and he's gone over them twice already, each headline burning into his memory like hot coal to the skin. Lucius is dead, that much he already knew. He died almost three years ago, in Azkaban. It strikes Harry as odd to find that Narcissa didn’t write an obituary for her husband. Malfoy was still in Azkaban when his father passed away, but Narcissa had been cleared of all charges and was free to do as she pleased. 

Malfoy Manor was seized by the Ministry sometime after the trials and turned into some sort of external offices. Harry has searched endlessly for recent news about Narcissa Malfoy but is yet to find an article that mentions her. Harry wishes he had asked Kreacher more about her. She did save his life, after all.

Harry hasn't brought up Malfoy again to Hermione and Ron. They seem to sense his discomfort around the subject and so they don't mention him either. Hermione has tried to ask him several times if he owled the Aurors or not, but Harry shuts her down every time. He doesn't fancy explaining that Malfoy is not illegally duelling but actually selling his arse in the London streets. For some unknown reason, Harry feels like that's a secret between Malfoy and him. There's also the shame that comes with admitting that he was wrong about the whole thing, and a greater one in admitting that it was because he was desperate for some action.

It's three in the morning when Harry's Floo alarm starts ringing. He grabs his wand from under the pillow and jumps out of bed so fast his head spins. He raises the blinds and, realizing it's still dark outsides, checks the Muggle clock he keeps on his nightstand.

Ron half-walks and half-staggers into Harry's bedroom, not at all fazed by the wand Harry's pointing at his chest. The moonlight coming from the open window makes Ron's face look deathly white.

"What's wrong?" is all Harry manages to ask him. His heart is going wild in his chest, beating faster as Harry’s brain goes through the list of people who could be hurt.

"I need a drink," Ron declares with a clarity of mind Harry envies. "Let's have a drink."

Harry follows him downstairs to the study, where the alcohol is. After casting the lights on, Harry asks, "Is Hermione alright? Is your mum alright?"

Ginny’s name is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back down at the last second. 

"They're fine." Ron plops down on one of Harry's couches, the smaller one. He Summons the bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses from the small cabinet on the far end of the room. His hand trembles as he pours his and Harry's drink. "Hermione got a called in at midnight," he explains once he has some alcohol in him. “She came back a wreck. I’d never seen her like that before."

Harry visibly relaxes, accepting the drink Ron’s offering him. Maybe they had a fight when Hermione came back and that's why Ron's here, hiding. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. 

"What happened at work?"

"She wouldn't tell me at first.” Ron licks his lips nervously. "Said something about fire. I don't—She's lost people before, Harry. You know how she can get, but… this time was different."

Harry knows. Hermione's an excellent Healer, she's won awards for her research and her work ethics, but sometimes things go wrong and losing people doesn't get any easier, not when you feel things like Hermione does. 

Harry clears his throat. "Did the patient die?" 

Ron’s skin turns a sickly shade of yellow. He downs another shot. "No, he's fine. I mean, not _fine_ but like, out of danger."

"Then why…?"

"It's Malfoy, Harry," Ron says quietly. 

The glass tries to slip out of his grip. Harry's fingers close around it so tightly it's almost painful. 

"I'm sorry, what?"

Ron stares into his drink. "You were right. He must have been duelling someone and things got out of hand.” He hesitates for a moment. "He's in really bad shape."

Harry's whole mouth is numb. It feels as though his tongue has been replaced by a dead slug. "Duelling?" he asks. It sounds like a cough.

"Well, he's not conscious, so it's not like we could ask the bastard what he's been up to. But you mentioned that you had reasons to believe he was partaking in some illegal—"

"Why would Hermione…? I mean, he's not dead. You said something about a fire."

Ron winces imperceptibly, then shakes his head as if to clear it of an unpleasant image. "I don't know. She wouldn't say."

"Then why are you here?" 

"She got a call around midnight and went to St. Mungo's, that much I’ve already told you. I think it was around two a.m when she came home. She was…” Ron shakes his head again, this time more forcefully. He reminds Harry of Kreacher. “She decided to head back there, said they probably needed her. I couldn't go back to sleep so I thought… I don't know. I guess I just needed to talk to someone about it."

A thick fog takes over Harry's brain. It becomes increasingly hard to hold the glass in his hand and to understand the words Ron's saying. Fire. The back of Harry’s neck burns, like the skin there remembers the lick of the flames in The Room of Requirement. It must be bad, Harry thinks, even if Malfoy’s not dead. It must be really, really bad, or else Hermione wouldn’t have got so upset. _I’d never seen her like that before._

"I want to see him."

"Who? You don’t mean Malfoy, do you, mate?" Ron asks, looking at Harry for the first time in weeks. "Why do you want to see him?”

Why does Harry want to see Malfoy? He's not a Healer, he's not even an Auror. Malfoy's never been his friend. Harry hated him. Until he didn’t. After the war his hatred and anger had melted away, leaving only indifference behind. Harry hadn't thought about Malfoy in years before they bumped into each other outside The Hound almost a month ago. Why does Harry want to rush over to St. Mungo's at three in the morning to see him?

Ignoring the question altogether, Harry says, “I’m going.”

"Harry, I don't think Malfoy's up for visitors right now."

"I don't care.” He places his untouched drink on the glass table and slips his wand in the front pocket of his joggers. He should probably take a shower before leaving—it’s been well over a week since he’s had a real shower, with shampoo and soap—but he's too jittery. Another Scourgify will do. "Are you coming or what?"

"You're actually serious about this?"

"Yes, I am. Come on, I'm sure 'Mione will be happy to see you."

*****

St. Mungo's looks exactly as Harry remembers it: bleak, depressing, and understaffed. 

There’s a group of Healer trainees huddled outside together, having a smoke and enjoying the fresh air. The sight makes Harry's lungs ache longingly. When he remembers what they're here for, the longing turns into nausea. 

Hermione's in her office. The receptionist, a blonde witch in her twenties, advises them against disturbing her, claiming that it's been a rough night and Hermione's feeling under the weather. When Ron tells her who they are the witch’s face turns scarlet-red. She must be a foreign intern, Harry thinks, as she's got a bit of an accent. She barely even glanced in Harry’s direction, something that’s never happened to him before when meeting new people.

Ron goes in first. Harry stands outside Hermione's office awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while trying terribly hard not to think about Malfoy. The hallway is deserted, something Harry thanks all his lucky stars for. He doesn't think he can bring himself to be polite to strangers right now, let alone sign autographs or pose for pictures.

Ron sticks his head out the door after a while. "Come in," is all he says before disappearing inside again.

Harry walks in and closes the door behind him. Hermione's office looks like it's always looked, except for some new pictures of their friends Harry's never seen before decorating the walls—Neville with his hand stuck in a strange plant’s mouth, probably from South America, and Luna standing next to Ron in a pub—and the strong, almost intoxicating smell of lavender.

"Nice perfume," Harry compliments. He doesn't realize he's said something wrong until he sees Hermione's face crumble.

She's sitting on her desk, similarly to how Harry sat a couple of weeks ago when he came to talk to her about Malfoy. Her hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, something that only happens when she's at work and can't have a wild mane framing her face, and she looks completely overwhelmed. 

Ron shoots him an apologetic look on her behalf, but Hermione speaks before he can explain. 

"It's to mask the smell," she croaks out. "I couldn't get it off my hands. Seven Scourgifys later and they still…"

Dread pools in Harry's stomach. "'Mione."

She shakes her head. "I’m being stupid. It's not like he’s dead."

"And he's Malfoy," Ron adds.

Hermione slaps his arm, hard. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing,” Ron says quickly. "I just meant that it's not like he's one of closest friends."

"He's still a human being, Ronald," Hermione practically barks. Ron flinches and so does Harry. "He deserves access to treatment and… and…”

When it becomes obvious Hermione won’t finish, Harry says, "What happened?" 

"You were right, Harry." _I wasn't_ , Harry wants to say but doesn't. "He must have been fighting against someone powerful tonight. They used dark spells, complex ones. His skin…" She doesn't seem able to go on. After a while she rubs a hand over her face, says, "His arm is really bad."

"How bad?" 

Hermione gives him a look. "I don't know how well he'll be able to use it," she finally says. "It's his left one." 

Malfoy's right-handed. Harry’s not sure how he knows that, but he does. 

"What kinds of spells? Was it _Ignis Ardescit_?"

"No, it was… I don't know, I've never seen anything like it. It scorches the skin." Hermione looks at her hands, realizes they're shaking, and turns them into tight, white fists. "The smell…"

"That's enough," Ron says He puts his arm around her, anchoring her.

Harry looks away. "I'd like to see him. I know he's probably unconscious, but still."

"Why are you here, Harry?" Hermione asks. She sounds tired. "You know perfectly well you're not allowed to question him."

"I know that.” 

“Then why are you here?”

Harry doesn’t know how to answer that. "Has anyone come in to see him?" he asks instead. 

“No,” Hermione says. She leans heavily against Ron like her legs are about to give out from under her. “I don’t think anyone will.”

"Surely he's got friends," Harry says, forgetting for a second that they're talking about Malfoy. Has Malfoy ever had friends? "What about his mother?"

"We haven't been able to contact her yet."

"Who got his case?" Ron asks her. He’s gone back to avoiding Harry’s gaze, especially now that he’s talking about work.

"Someone named Richardson. Robards wanted to send two Aurors to stand outside his room, to make sure he doesn't escape, but I explained to him that Malfoy's not going anywhere any time soon."

"What are you two talking about?" Harry asks with more heat than he intended to. He tells himself he's upset on Malfoy's behalf, not because they're discussing Auror related stuff in front of him. "His _case_?"

They both look at him like he's daft. Hermione breaks the awkward silence by saying, "He's going to be investigated for illegal duelling, Harry."

“If he’s found guilty he’ll go back to Azkaban. Fighting for money is a clear breach of his parole.” 

The purple inkwell on Hermione’s desk rattles. Harry closes his eyes and says, for what feels like the millionth time, "I was wrong about that."

Ron goes on as if he hasn’t heard Harry at all. "They haven't checked his wand yet, but I'm pretty sure there'll be enough evidence to get the case going. The latest Ministry disposition about former Death Eaters will certainly help," Ron babbles. Once he remembers this is Harry he's talking to, the tips of his ears flare red again. 

"What disposition?"

Ron bites his lip. "The Ministry is keeping tabs on all convicted Death Eaters. It's a new thing, maybe that's why Malfoy has been getting away with using certain spells behind the Department's back."

"How new?" 

"Two months.”

"Malfoy's not duelling," Harry says again, so firmly both of his friends straighten up. "I know because I followed him for weeks after talking to you."

Hermione's eyes soften. "Oh, Harry, you shouldn't have done that. If Malfoy finds out you've been stalking him, he could press charges against you."

"He already knows and, as far as I'm aware, he hasn't pressed any charges."

Ron scowls. "That doesn't mean he won't once he realizes he's being looked into."

"That's not happening any time soon, Harry. He's in a magically induced coma for now," Hermione says. She looks like she wants to add something else but decided against it at the last second. "You can see him if you want, just…”

"Just what, Hermione?"

"It's not a pretty sight."

Harry feels like he might throw up. He can’t help but feel like this is his fault. If he hadn’t assumed Malfoy was up to something, he wouldn’t have told Ron and Hermione about it, and Malfoy wouldn’t be facing criminal charges. 

"How did he get here, then?” Harry asks when his stomach has somewhat settled. “If someone brought him in they could be a potential witness.”

"He Apparated outside," Hermione says quietly. 

"In that state?"

"I don’t know how he managed to concentrate enough to do it, but he did. He didn't even splinch an eyebrow.” Hermione shudders in Ron’s arms. “The amount of pain he must have been in… I can hardly believe it.”

*****

Malfoy looks younger—that’s Harry’s first thought when he sees him. The skin around his face is drawn tight, not a wrinkle in sight even though the only expression Harry's ever seen on him is a frown. His hair looks darker, probably because of the sweat, and it’s sticking to his forehead like he's got a high fever. It takes a lot of Harry's self-control not to reach out to brush it out of his eyes. 

Harry’s eyes wander lower and lower, taking in all the damage that's been caused.

Malfoy’s right arm is heavily wrapped in white bandages, hiding the wounds from view. There are red spots on his forearm where he’s bleed through the gauze. His hand, lax and so pale it could belong to a dead man, looks unscathed for the most part. If Harry looks closer he can make out the places where the skin looks like it’s been peeled off, especially near the wrist area. Everything else—his chest, his abdomen, his legs—is covered by the sheets someone’s tucked around him.

Hermione explained the worst burns are the ones on Malfoy’s arm and chest, which leads her to think that may be where the spells hit him. His face, she said, was covered in weeping gashes and open sores, but they had been able to fix those right away. He had been covered in blood and grime when they levitated him in, nose broken in at least three places, making him look nothing like himself. It had taken Hermione a while to recognise him. 

The smell Hermione was talking about is really faint now, yet Harry makes sure to breathe through his mouth to avoid making himself sick. It smells like burnt flesh in Malfoy’s room, something Harry wishes he had never smelt before. It's bitter and hard to ignore, and not even Hermione’s frantic Scourgifys seem to eliminate it completely. Harry tries not to think about it too much or else he'll be forced to leave.

Harry doesn't know why he's here. He's pretty sure if Malfoy woke up right this second he wouldn't be happy to see Harry sitting by his bed and breathing through his mouth like a fish out of water. Harry's probably the last person Malfoy would like to see when he wakes up. Yet Harry can't bring himself to leave.

As he watches him sleep, feeling like a complete and utter creep, Harry can't help but wonder what life has been like for Malfoy since he got out of Azkaban. His childhood home is gone, his father is dead, and his mother is nowhere to be found. If Malfoy had any friends, even a girlfriend, they would have shown up by now. It’s been almost ten hours since he was brought in, and no one but Harry has come to visit him.

Richardson, the Auror in charge of Malfoy's case, shows up around nine in the morning to ask Harry some questions. He's a sturdy man, pushing on forty, and already balding. He doesn't seem to give a rat's ass that he's Harry Potter, which makes Harry like him instantly.

The man sits down next to Harry, grumbling about hospital chairs and back pains. Harry can sympathise with that, given the sharp jolts of pain he feels on his lower back every time he moves. He’s been sitting by Malfoy’s bed for five hours, alternating between dozing off and staring at Malfoy, and it’s obviously taking its toll on his body.

"Auror Weasley said you know more about this fellow than anyone else at the moment," Richardson says, pointing at Malfoy. He doesn’t seem to be a morning person. "Do you know what he’s been up to? Any enemies I should be hunting down?”

"I don't know who could have done this," Harry replies carefully. "I mean, he's not the most liked wizard around, but this seems personal."

Richardson nods. "It does. Whoever attacked him obviously wanted him to suffer. Auror Weasley mentioned something about duels. Know anything about that?"

“Er, no. I kind of jumped to conclusions about that.”

Richardson looks disappointed. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Maybe his wand will tell us what kind of stuff he’s involved in.” He scratches his cheek with his thumb. “Are you two close?”

"No. We're not even friends. We ran into each other outside a club two weeks ago, but I hadn’t seen him in four years before that."

"Seems awfully noble of you to spend the night here then," Richardson says. "Listen, Potter, I'm trying to do my job. I'm sure you understand how tough that can be."

Harry knows far too well how tough it can be. He also knows he’s withholding important information about Malfoy’s job, which is illegal, but he can’t bring himself to tell Richardson. News spread like wildfire, and Harry refuses to be responsible for spreading Malfoy’s secret while the git is unconscious. It’s one thing to dislike Malfoy, but quite another to publicly humiliate him.

"I know. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.”

Richardson sighs and gets up to leave. "I'll be in touch."

When he’s gone, Harry slumps against the chair and takes a deep breath. It's the first time he's ever been on the other side of the interrogation process and, worst of all, it's the first time in years he's lied about something important.

Malfoy's pale face gives nothing away. Is he in pain? Is he aware of what’s going on around him? And if he is, does he wish Harry would leave him alone?

"You'll be fine," Harry says out loud, feeling like an idiot, “and everything will go back to the way it was."

The scars on the back of his hand prickle uncomfortably. Harry ignores them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is your daily reminder to drink water


	3. 3

**3**

Harry visits Malfoy three times a week for six weeks. When asked about it by Hermione, he shrugs and says he’s just repaying a Life-Debt. She doesn’t seem too pleased with this answer but doesn’t push it. She tried once, two weeks after Harry started showing up, explaining to him that his debt is not to this particular Malfoy, but Harry had completely ignored her. He’s got better and better at tuning her out. Sometimes, he can even pretend she’s not there at all.

He’s Malfoy’s only visitor. Narcissa Malfoy is nowhere to be found, according to Ron. It’s like she vanished sometime after Malfoy got out of Azkaban, never to been or heard of again in the Wizarding World. Since Harry’s not an Auror anymore, not even a Ministry worker, he can’t exactly go around asking questions, stalking people, and getting things bloody done. He can’t do anything but wait, something he's never been good at.

Ron doesn't ask him any questions either, probably under Hermione's orders, which makes his visits even shorter and more unpleasant than before. It’s clear he thinks Harry’s gone crazy in the way he scowls and huffs when he goes to Grimmauld Place on Fridays, but Harry ignores him too.

"Everything's stupid," he tells Malfoy. It’s Monday, exactly six weeks after the attack. He's taken up talking to Malfoy mostly because there's nothing else to do, but also because Malfoy can’t talk back. It’s sort of liberating, in a very selfish way. "If they keep naming things after me soon enough everything will have my name on it. Last time I went to Diagon a lady told me she had named her twins Harry and James because of me."

Malfoy, as he has done for the last six weeks, says nothing.

"You probably think I enjoy it. Well, you're wrong. I _don't_ enjoy it," he says. He jumps to the next subject he can think of, suddenly bored of ranting about his own fame. "Michael Broader broke both his legs last Sunday. It was the last match of the season for him, I reckon. In my opinion, his flying's always been a bit wonky, but on Sunday his broom slipped right through his legs and he fell faster than anyone could say Levicorpus." Harry stops to check Malfoy's face. Is it a frown Harry sees? "Yeah, you probably love him. He was a Slytherin after all. Maybe that's why he flies like he's got a stick up his ar—"

"Shut up," Malfoy croaks. He winces at the scraping sound of his own voice. "Water."

Harry jumps out of his seat. He sticks his head out the door and catches the eye of a Mediwitch walking down the corridor. He motions for her to come in.

"Water," Malfoy repeats in the same awful voice.

"Oh, right," Harry says stupidly. He transfigures a pale ornament to his right that looks like a Goblin into a funny-shaped glass. He’s about to cast an Aguamenti when the Mediwitch steps inside Malfoy's room. "He's awake," Harry tells her, unsure of what to do with the empty glass he’s now holding.

She gives him a funny look. "He's not allowed to drink anything yet," she says and turns her back to Harry, facing Malfoy. "It could mess up the last potion Healer Granger administered," she explains when Malfoy's mouth purses in pure hatred.

He hasn't opened his eyes yet. That's good, Harry thinks. Maybe he doesn't know Harry's there at all. Harry's been told before his voice is quite unremarkable. Actually, now that he thinks about it, it might have been Malfoy who told him that.

"Don't move, Mr Malfoy. Do you know where you are?" She waits for him to reply. He doesn't. "You're in St. Mungo's. You were attacked. How are you feeling?"

Malfoy doesn't answer.

Harry knows he's listening, so he says, "Stop being a wanker, Malfoy. Answer the question."

Malfoy's face is completely blank except for the way the right side of his mouth is twitching upwards. He stays silent, the only indication he's not dead is the rise and fall of his chest under the thin sheets. Harry's already forgotten his worry over Malfoy; it's been quickly replaced by a too familiar irritation.

"You're awake! You told me to shut up two minutes ago," Harry hisses.

The Mediwitch turns around to face him, a blank expression similar to Malfoy’s on her face. "Sir, would you like to step outside for a moment?"

"No."

"Then I suggest you stop talking," she says. "Does anything hurt, Mr Malfoy?"

Malfoy grunts. It's a while before he manages to say the word. "Arm."

"Thank you, Emer," Hermione says from the doorway. Harry wonders how long she's been standing there. "I'll take it from here."

Harry, expecting Malfoy to protest, braces himself for the insults to come. Malfoy, however, doesn't say anything at all. He doesn't flinch away from Hermione's hands, nor does he call her any names. Not even a Mudblood.

"What's your pain level, Malfoy?" Hermione asks him, standing on the left side of his bed and pushing the sheets down to reveal his chest area. It’s a mess of bandages with red spots on them. "One to ten."

" _Eleven_ ," he breathes out, voice raspy and annoyed.

"Can he drink some water?" Harry finds himself asking after he realizes he's still holding the glass like an idiot. "His voice is shit."

Something flickers in Hermione's eyes and then it's gone. "In a second," she says, pressing the tip of her wand to Malfoy's chest. "I need to make sure it hasn't spread," she explains. Harry's not sure he wants to know what she’s talking about. "It looks clean. You don't have a fever, Malfoy. That's good. I'm going to give you something for the pain, alright?"

Malfoy's gone back to pretending to be a corpse. Hermione retrieves a small vial from her robe and uncorks it, the room instantly filling with the smell of herbs. She brings the bottle to Malfoy’s lips and tilts it slowly for him to drink the liquid down without choking.

"Alright, that should do it."

"Water, Hermione."

She looks startled like she’d forgotten Harry’s standing there. "Oh, sure. Okay, you can give it to him now. Let me just sit him up," she says as she brings him forward the tiniest bit with her wand.

Harry flushes. He was hoping she'd volunteer to do it. He casts some water to fill the glass and moves closer to Malfoy. Harry retrieves the glass when Malfoy’s makes a face after a few sips.

"It probably hurts to swallow," Hermione says when she notices Harry's frown. "His throat was bruised when he came in. It'll get better with time."

"Why hasn't he opened his eyes?"

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione says irritably. "I just got here."

Harry flushes harder at her annoyance. "Right, sorry. I'll, uh… I should get going. I ran out of peas last night, so. Better go to Sainsbury’s and… yeah.”

Thinking back on it later, Harry concludes that's probably the most pathetic thing he's ever said in Malfoy's presence. He can only hope Malfoy won't remember any of it. He flees out of the room and to the Apparition section of St. Mungo’s before Hermione can say anything else.

Instead of going straight home, he Apparates a couple of blocks away from the Ministry, hoping to catch Ron before he leaves for his lunch break. He and Ron used to get fish and chips from the Muggle chippy every Monday, so Harry waits for him there.

Ron shows up ten minutes later, alone. Greg must not like fish and chips.

“Harry? What are you doing here? I thought you were visiting—” Ron stops himself abruptly like he doesn’t want anyone hearing who Harry’s been hanging out with. “Whatever. It’s good to see you.”

Harry grins at him as they walk inside, grateful for the distraction Ron represents. The smell of greasy food envelops them instantly. They order the usual and cross the street to the small park where they used to sit down to eat all the time. Before, they would have discussed cases or hypothesis until Ron groaned and told Harry that it was called a lunch _break_ for a reason. Now, however, they don’t say anything as they settle down on their usual bench and start eating.

“Malfoy woke up,” Harry says through a mouthful of chips. The vinegar makes his eyes water. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean ‘kind of’? Did he wake up or not?”

Ron’s annoyance makes his voice sharper. Harry almost feels bad for him. This is his free time and he’s spending it talking about Malfoy with Harry. Talking about Malfoy still seems like a better option to Harry than sitting in silence for the next half an hour, which is exactly what they’ve been doing on Fridays at Grimmauld Place.

“He didn’t open his eyes, but he’s conscious. As conscious as someone who got his arse hexed to the moon and back can be.”

“Alright,” Ron says. He cleans the grease off his fingers with a cheap paper napkin. “Have you heard about Michael Broader? Ginny says he’s not likely to get back on the field for at least a year.”

The mention of Ginny’s name doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry. That’s Ron’s way of punishing him for talking about Malfoy. Harry knows he should take this opportunity to ask about her, but he can’t bring himself to. It seems he can’t bring himself to do a lot of things these days.

“Yeah, I was telling Malfoy about it earlier,” Harry says, realizing too late he’s still talking about Malfoy. He feels his face heat up. “He’s a Slytherin, did you know?”

Ron lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, I know Malfoy’s a Slytherin, Harry. I went to school with him.”

“No, I meant Michael Broader. I know you know Malfoy’s a Slytherin.”

“Sorry.”

They sit in silence for a while. Harry’s chips have gone cold and soggy. He plays around with them but doesn’t attempt to eat them. Ron starts to rant about The Falcon’s new uniform and how awful the new colours are. Harry nods along, pretending to be interested.

Finally, unable to keep it in any longer, Harry blurts out, “So, do you think Malfoy’s going to get discharged soon?”

Ron’s head snaps in Harry’s direction. “What?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, Harry. I just can’t believe you’re still talking about that bloody git!”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I don’t talk about him that often.”

“You’re literally obsessed,” Ron tells him with a scowl on his face that reminds Harry, for some unknown reason, to McGonagall’s. “If sixth-year Harry could see you right now he’d tell you to calm the fuck down and stop stalking Malfoy’s every move. And you know how obsessed with him you were back then.”

Harry stands up. The box of chips that had been resting on his lap falls to the ground, sending chips flying everywhere.“Yeah, well. Was I wrong back then?”

“No,” Ron says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s okay to obsess over him again just because…”

“Because?” Harry says, daring him to go on.

Ron shifts uncomfortably on the bench. “Because you have nothing better to do with your time, mate.”

Harry knows Ron is right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It’s one thing to think of himself as a jobless, hobbyless, loverless idiot, but it’s another to have his best mate confirm it to his face. So what if he’s a bit too invested in Malfoy’s recovery? Doesn’t that make him the bigger person, the one who’s able to move past what happened between them in school?

“I have to go, I’ve run out of peas.”

“Harry.”

“See you on Friday,” Harry says, already stomping away.

Ron doesn’t follow him, as Harry knew he wouldn’t.

*****

“I got your owl,” Harry says before Hermione can open her mouth.

She gives him an annoyed look. “I know you did, that’s how you knew what time to come here.”

“Right.”

Hermione’s office doesn’t smell like lavender anymore, but of oranges. Harry curses himself for not picking up any orange juice when he went grocery shopping last week.

“I wanted to talk to you, Harry. Ron told me…” She pauses. “He said he tried to talk to you about Malfoy, but it all went down poorly.”

Harry shrugs. “That’s one way of looking at it.” He suddenly feels like he’s being interrogated or worse, being scolded. “He called me a jobless wanker.”

“He didn’t.”

“He didn’t explicitly say it. He insinuated it.”

Hermione’s eyes search for his, but Harry keeps his gaze fixed on the wall of her office where a picture of her parents is hung. “Malfoy’s stable. He’s got a long way ahead of him, but he’s doing alright. He’ll need some physical therapy before he’s able to use his wand again.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Why did you stop visiting him? And don’t tell me it’s because of what Ron said to you.”

“I don’t know,” Harry lies, not smoothly enough to fool anyone, let alone Hermione. “I needed a break. Besides, it’s not like I owe him anything. As you said, I owe his mum. I was only doing it because I was bored.”

Hermione leans forward on her desk. “You know that’s not true. When you’re bored you go flying or try new recipes. You didn’t visit an unconscious Malfoy for six weeks just because you grew tired of your everyday routine.”

“I don’t have a routine,” Harry says. What he does every day can hardly be called a routine. “Why does it matter whether I visit him or not?”

Hermione purses her lips into a tight line. She always does that when she’s uncomfortable. “He asked about you.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’? Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, Harry!” she says frustratedly, throwing her hands up in the air. “First you illegally stalk him—”

“I reckon stalking people is always illegal.”

“—you visit him day in and day out for a month and a half, and, finally, you revert back to your usual state.”

Harry frowns at that. “What’s my usual state?”

“Ignoring him, maybe,” Hermione replies. “Or at least acting like you’re ignoring him.”

“It would take me being around him to actually ignore him, Hermione. Just because he asked about me doesn’t mean he asked me to visit.” Harry scratches the back of his neck, which he is positive must be a flaming red colour. “I don’t understand you. You didn’t want me involved with him before and now you do?”

Hermione’s face is dangerously red too. “I don’t want you involved! I’m just asking you about him.”

“Why did you call me here today?”

She straightens up slowly in her chair. “To talk about Malfoy.”

“For Lilith’s tits, Hermione, just spit it out.”

“He’s getting discharged in a week,” Hermione cuts him off. “I wouldn’t ask you if anyone else was willing to do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks slowly.

“He can’t go back to living on his own, Harry. He’s too weak to use his magic and his left arm is still… bad,” she settles for. _Destroyed_ , Harry thinks but doesn’t say it. “As I said before, he’s got physical therapy sessions he needs to attend, along with skin-healing potions he needs to take.”

“So?”

She stares at him. “Harry.”

“You’re not suggesting I move in with him, right?”

“No.”

Harry lets out a sigh. “Thank Merlin.”

“I’m asking you to let him move in with you. Temporarily.”

Harry’s throat betrays him, closing up and sending him into a coughing fit. “No way,” he wheezes out. “No.”

“He doesn’t have anyone. You saw that for yourself.”

“And you think he’ll agree to live with me? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? It’s Malfoy. Blonde, pale, scrawny. Acts like an arsehole.”

Hermione kicks him on the shin under the desk. “He can’t refuse if I write it as a mandatory condition on his release slip.”

“Aren’t there any other options? Doesn’t the Ministry provide old people with hospice Healers?”

“Malfoy doesn’t qualify for hospice treatment options, Harry,” she says with so much exasperation he’s surprised she’s not yelling. “I’ve tried my best to find other solutions. All the people I’ve asked simply don’t want to take on his case because he’s Malfoy.”

Harry frowns at that. “What do you mean ‘because he’s Malfoy’?”

“They’re technically not allowed to refuse because of that, but they do anyway. I’ve had two people agree to do it before they knew who they were going to be looking after, but when I told them it was Malfoy they both backed down. I think the war’s still fresh on everyone’s minds,” she says in a low voice like she’s afraid someone will barge in and scold her for talking about it. “He’s been put on a waiting list, but it could take up to a month to find someone who’s willing to work with him.”

Harry weighs his options carefully. He could refuse. Hermione wouldn’t blame him for that, she would understand. Harry knows she can’t take him to her house because she’s his Healer and it’d be unprofessional. Besides, Harry reasons, Ron would probably kill Malfoy before the first twenty-four hours were up.

Malfoy’s mother didn't visit him once, and Harry knows there’s no point in asking Hermione if she’s had any luck contacting Malfoy’s old school friends. Ron let it slip a couple of weeks into the investigation of Malfoy’s attack that they had checked all his mail and conducted a search in his flat only to come out empty-handed. Malfoy’s only correspondence consisted of his subscription to The Daily Prophet. They didn’t even found the letter Harry had sent him prior to his attack, which means Malfoy didn’t think it important enough to keep. Why would he anyways? He had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want Harry’s charity.

“Harry, please,” Hermione says, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Alright,” he finds himself saying. “But you’ll be responsible if we end up murdering each other.”

Hermione’s shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you.”

“And _you_ get to explain to Ron why Malfoy’s coming to live with me. I don’t want him getting any stupid ideas. I’m doing this because you’re asking me to, not because I want to do it.”

She opens a drawer and pulls out a small cloth bag that looks suspiciously similar to the one she carried around during the war. She places it on the desk and pushes it towards Harry.

“The potions and salves he’ll need are inside. You should take them with you today.” _So you won’t change your mind._ “And you should probably ask Kreacher to come back, at least for a few days.”

It’s not a terrible idea. Grimmauld Place could use Kreacher’s cleaning abilities for sure. Besides, having Kreacher around means he won’t be alone with Malfoy, something Harry’s already dreading.

Fingers closing around the bag, he says, “I guess.”

Hermione puts her hand over Harry’s and squeezes. “It’ll be good for you.”

“Having Kreacher around?” Harry jokes. He retrieves his hand, clutching the bag tightly, and pretends not to see the hurt that flashes across Hermione’s face. “It will. For one, he cooks better than me.”

Although it’s not what she meant, she doesn’t correct him. It’s been a while since anyone’s told Harry he’s wrong.

*****

Harry gives his living room one last inspection before apparating to St. Mungo’s. He doesn’t want Malfoy to think he lives in some sort of dark cave, so he spent the forty-eight hours leading up to Malfoy's discharge making sure Grimmauld Place doesn’t look like one.

He opened all the windows (twenty-six, last time he counted them) and left them like that for half a day to let the house air out. Then, he proceeded to make sure the guest bedroom is the best it can possibly be, going as far as buying new sheets for the bed. Malfoy’s a guest, after all. And quite hard to satisfy, too.

Kreacher had been ecstatic when Harry broke the news to him about Malfoy’s prolonged visit. He had promised to do his absolute best to upgrade all his recipes to something worthy of a guest such as Malfoy. Kreacher spent the last two days leading up to Malfoy’s arrival obsessively cleaning the guest room and making sure there’s not a single speck of dust in the living room. The house even _smells_ different by the time Harry leaves.

Hermione’s already waiting for him outside Malfoy’s room, even though Harry’s fifteen minutes earlier than they agreed. She seems more than relieved when she sees spots him walking down the hall like she thought he wouldn’t show up.

“I told him yesterday morning,” she says before Harry can even open his mouth. She’s gesturing wildly, hands going in every possible direction, which means she’s nervous. “He took it surprisingly well.”

Harry stares at her. There’s no way Malfoy reacted well to being told he’ll be living with Harry for a month. “Okay,” he says, deciding not to push it. “Do we have to use the Floo?”

“Yes, he’s too weak for Apparition.”

“Alright.” They stand outside for a moment. Harry can feel Hermione’s nervousness and it’s only making him more jittery. It’s a good thing he hasn’t had any coffee yet. “Shall we?” he asks, pointing at Malfoy’s door.

Hermione flushes and nods fervently. “Yes, just. Maybe you should go in by yourself first.”

“So he can hex my arse out of the galaxy?”

“He doesn’t have a wand, Harry.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Harry quotes. “Seriously, how mad is he?”

“He’s not _mad_.”

“Hermione.”

“He’s not,” she insists. “He hasn’t said a word about it, that’s all.”

“You told me he’d taken it surprisingly well!”

“And I was telling you the truth. It’s not like complained or anything.”

“Fine, I’ll go in. If I die…”

Hermione rolls her eyes at him, already pushing him to the door. “You won’t die, Harry. It’s Draco Malfoy, not the bloody Dark Lord.”

Malfoy’s sitting on the edge of the bed when Harry walks in. His arm is in a blue sling, similar to the ones Muggles use, and he’s wearing Muggle clothes, a loose short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of joggers. It’s the most casual Harry’s ever seen him dress. He nods at Harry as he walks through the door, but his eyes stay fixed on his lap.

“So,” Harry says, unsure of how to proceed, “Malfoy.”

Malfoy looks up at him through his blonde fringe. His hair is longer than Harry’s ever seen it, even longer than Harry’s. “Potter.”

At least his voice has gone back to normal. A little bit lower, if anything.

“Have you had breakfast already?” Harry asks, not really sure why. He watches Malfoy shake his head no. “Awesome. My house elf makes the best french toast I’ve ever eaten.”

Malfoy’s snorts. “I highly doubt it’ll be the best french toast _I_ ’ve ever eaten.”

Harry grins in spite of himself. He can’t _not_ find Malfoy’s arrogance amusing given the current circumstances. He’s persistent, Harry’ll give him that. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we, _housemate_?”

Malfoy’s face is a mask that gives nothing away. Not that Harry’s ability to read facial expressions has suddenly improved. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as Granger finds me a Mediwitch to work with.” He scrunches up his nose in distaste. Harry’s not sure whether the frown is directed at Hermione or at the idea of working with a Mediwitch. “You can’t say you’re not enjoying this, Potter.”

“Enjoying what, exactly?”

Malfoy tilts his head to the side, letting his grey eyes land on Harry’s. “Seeing me like this. I bet you think I deserve it after everything I’ve done,” he says. It sounds like a challenge. Like he’s daring Harry to agree with him.

“As far as I’m concerned you’ve already done your time,” Harry says, his words an echo of Malfoy’s from so many weeks ago. “Cheer up, Malfoy. You’ll get to eat french toast _and_ sleep in a real bed.”

“This is a real bed.”

“You know what I mean.”

Malfoy gives him an amused smirk. “I don’t, Potter. Please enlighten me with how your bed will be different from this one.”

“First off, it’s not my bed you’ll be sleeping in,” Harry corrects him. His cheeks feel warm, like he’s got a fever. Maybe he does. “Secondly, the bed in my guest room is twice the size of this one, so I’m sure you’ll be able to appreciate the difference.”

“Granger wants me to use that,” Malfoy says pointing to the wheelchair at the side of the bed. “But I think there won’t be any need for that thing at all.”

“If Hermione told you to use it then I’m not going to go against her orders. She’s the best at what she does, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Malfoy says drily. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to sit on that damned chair.”

“What do you suggest then? I’m not going to carry you around like a bloody bride, Malfoy.”

Malfoy scowls at that. “I never asked you to.”

“Stop being a stubborn bastard then.”

“I can walk,” he says furiously. Some colour has returned to his cheeks, giving them a red tinge. “They hexed my arm, not my legs, Potter.”

Harry sighs. This is why Hermione asked him to go in first. She probably wasn’t able to convince Malfoy to get in the chair. “Get up and prove it then.”

“Right now?”

“Oh, well, I suppose we could talk about the weather first and then—yes, Malfoy, bloody now!”

Malfoy takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the bed using his good arm as support. He’s not wearing socks and the tiles must be freezing cold against the soles of his feet, but Malfoy doesn’t complain. He looks determined. He stands up slowly, slightly tilting to the right like he’s drunk and can’t keep his balance.

Still, he looks at Harry with pride, something which would have annoyed him in different circumstances. Right now it just makes Harry feel sad. “I told you I can walk.”

“You’re not walking, you’re standing there looking like a baby deer,” Harry says. “Like Bambi.”

Malfoy’s forehead is shining with sweat. He sits back down on the bed as graceful as he’s always been. “Who’s Bambi?”

Harry scratches the back of his neck. Of course Malfoy doesn’t know about Disney movies, he’s Malfoy. “It’s a character from a Muggle film.”

Malfoy ignores his explanation. “I’m not using the stupid chair and you can’t force me to.”

“I’m not going to force you to do anything, Malfoy. I’m not your mother,” Harry says before his brain’s had time to process his words. He looks at Malfoy, expecting him to be upset, but Malfoy’s face is calm, unbothered. The mention of his mother doesn’t seem to have bothered him at all. “You can crawl all the way to the Floo for all I care. Isn’t that what snakes do anyways?”

“Are you calling me a snake, Potter?”

“No, I just meant that it would be amusing to see a Slytherin crawling around St. Mungo’s. Any Slytherin.”

Malfoy gives him a hard look. “Snakes don’t crawl. They’d need to have arms and legs in order to do so.” He rubs the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “They slither.”

“Oh.”

A voice drifts in from the other side of the door. It’s Hermione’s. “Is everything okay in there?”

“Yes,” Harry replies instantly. “We’ll be out in five minutes.” He walks up to the chair and rolls it as close as he can to the bed. “Let’s go, Malfoy. Believe it or not, my whole life doesn’t revolve around you. I have other things I need to get done today.”

“I said I’m not sitting on the—”

“Malfoy,” Harry cuts him off sharply. He’s already started to regret agreeing to this and they haven’t even made it out of St. Mungo’s yet. “Let’s go.”

Malfoy bites down on his lip so hard Harry’s certain he’ll draw blood but lowers himself into the chair without another word of protest, keeping his free hand on his lap instead of letting it touch the armrest.

The chair has handles on the back. “Do you want me to push you?”

“Off a cliff,” Malfoy mutters under his breath. “It’s a magic chair, Potter. It doesn’t require physical effort to move it, just magic. And last time I checked I was still a wizard.”

Harry hesitates. “Hermione said your magic’s still pretty weak.” Despite what Malfoy may think Harry’s not an arsehole, he won’t just start pushing Malfoy around without asking him first. “Let me know if you need help after a while,” he adds, hoping Malfoy won’t need any help. Ever. He doesn’t fancy people seeing him wheel Malfoy around like they’re some sort of… elderly couple.

“Thank you. How kind of you to offer,” Malfoy says. “However, I’d rather die.”

Harry holds the door open for him to go through, which gains him a murderous look from Malfoy and a tight smile from Hermione. Malfoy leads the way, and she and Harry trail behind him in awkward silence. Some of the people in the hallways have the discretion to look away, but others stare openly and whisper among themselves. Harry finds himself wishing he had insisted on pushing Malfoy’s chair, just to give them something worth whispering about.

When they get to the Floo Section Hermione hands Harry a paper with Malfoy’s daily schedule. She hugs Harry when she’s done explaining every single potion Malfoy’s supposed to take and whispers a bunch of thank you’s into his ear.

She then turns to Malfoy, much to Harry’s surprise. “I hope you feel better soon, Malfoy. You can owl me if you need anything. Harry knows my address.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy says tightly, not meeting her eyes.

Harry’s head throbs, a sign that a migraine is coming. Did Malfoy just thank Hermione? Unironically?

“I’ll see you next week,” Hermione says. If she’s surprised by Malfoy’s words, she doesn’t show it. “Don’t forget to follow the schedule, Harry,” she adds. “Good luck, you two.”

Harry tenses at her words. She’s made it sound like they’re a team or something. Like a pair. In a way, Harry realizes with horror as they step into the Floo, they kind of are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. so... i completely forgot about this. but hey, here's a new chapter!!! I'll post another one on Monday (this time i swear i won't forget). oh and DRINK WATER. thank you.


	4. 4

**4**

Kreacher’s waiting for them in the study, next to the fireplace. His bow to Malfoy’s is so pronounced his nose touches the spotless wooden floor. He doesn’t dare meet Malfoy’s eyes but is more than happy to address him as Master Malfoy. The house-elf guides Malfoy into the dining room with the promise of breakfast and questions about food preferences. After a while, Harry follows them.

“Kreacher has been a faithful servant to the Black family for generations, Master Malfoy. Your family,” he says in a low voice, “should have kept this house. Kreacher thinks so, yes.”

Much to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy doesn’t immediately agree with Kreacher’s statement. “Hmm,” he says. Looking around the dining room with a bored expression, he adds, “I came here once when I was a boy. You’ve done wonders to it, Kreacher.”

The words, spoken so carefully and yet so politely, throw Harry off. He remembers Lucius’s disgusted tone when he ordered Dobby around. Even though the physical similarities make it impossible to question their relation, Harry has a hard time associating this Malfoy with that one.

Kreacher’s eyes widen and moisten at Malfoy’s compliment. “Kreacher will make french toast for Master Malfoy to taste right this second. It will be Kreacher’s pleasure, yes. It was Kreacher’s mistress’s favourite breakfast when she was a child,” he adds, always careful not to say her name.

Malfoy gives the elf a tight smile. He must know Kreacher’s referring to his aunt, but nothing in his face gives any indication of discomfort. A blank, tight mask. He turns to Harry and their eyes meet for a split second before Malfoy’s gaze returns to Kreacher. “I’m sure Potter will want some, too.”

They sit in silence for a while. Kreacher sticks his head out the kitchen door to observe them from time to time, but otherwise they are left to themselves. What should Harry talk about? Should he ask Malfoy if he’d like to see his room? Should he not say anything at all and remain stoic until Malfoy decides he wants to have a conversation?

“I didn’t think Harry Potter would have a house-elf,” Malfoy comments. Harry can tell he’s trying to sound casual, but there’s nothing casual about what he’s implying. “Isn’t Granger against all types of enslavement?”

The urge to explain himself is too strong. “Hermione doesn’t live in this house, in case you haven’t noticed already. Kreacher has the liberty of going wherever he pleases. I only asked him to come back from Hogwarts for a few days so he could help me out with you.”

“But he’s not a free elf, is he? He wouldn’t answer to you if he was.”

“I’ve tried to set him free,” Harry says defensively.

“Let me guess, he gets offended, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” Harry stares at the tablecloth. It’s one he’s never seen before, probably Kreacher’s attempt at wooing Malfoy. “But I’ve told him he can do whatever he wants to.”

“You mean you’ve _ordered_ him to do whatever he wants. That doesn’t sound like free will to me, Potter.”

Viciously, Harry says, “And what would you know about free will? I bet you treated your house-elves like shit, just like your father treated Dobby.”

Malfoy blinks. It occurs then to Harry that he may have gone a bit too far. “I—”

Kreacher walks over to them with two heaping plates of french toast, interrupting the conversation. He sets them on the table, closer to Malfoy than to Harry, and goes on to explain that one batch has cinnamon and the other has been left plain, in case Master Malfoy prefers a more traditional flavour.

“ _Accio_ syrup,” Harry says and puts out his hand to catch the bottle. He ignores Kreacher’s sour expression.

“You’re not going to put that on your toast, are you, Potter?” Malfoy says, sounding truly scandalized for the first time. His expression darkens at Harry’s shrug. “You really have no culinary taste whatsoever.”

Kreacher’s eyes glimmer with something bordering on pure bliss. “Kreacher has told Master Potter a million times that he is not to sweeten the food with that disgusting, vile, horrible thing, but Master Potter has refused to listen.”

Harry gives the bottle a hard squeeze until his french toast is drenched in syrup, so much that it pools all around it. “Master Potter doesn’t appreciate being talked about like he’s not here, Kreacher.”

Instead of replying, Kreacher goes back to the kitchen and brings out two jugs of milk and orange juice. He mutters something under his breath as he deposits them on the table, yet again closer to Malfoy’s reach than Harry’s. The kettle and two teacups appear on the table with a rattling sound.

Malfoy’s voice startles Kreacher into place, just when he’d turned around to leave. “Do you want one?”

Kreacher whips around and bows repeatedly, forehead grazing the floor at least five times. “Kreacher is a servant. Kreacher could never dishonour The Ancient House of Black like that, Master Malfoy,” he says and, bowing one last time, disappears into the kitchen without another word.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry snaps at him.

“Do what?”

“Pretend like you don’t think house-elves are the scum of the magical word.” Harry frowns, suddenly not hungry enough to make the effort of lifting his fork to his mouth. “You don’t have to pretend to be nice, Malfoy. I’m not going to kick you out.”

Malfoy’s face hardens. “I see.”

Harry pushes his plate away after the fifth bite. He overdid it with the syrup and now it’s too sweet. He watches Malfoy struggle to use the cutlery with only one hand but doesn’t offer to help.

“Richardson told me you don’t remember who attacked you,” Harry says because he’s tired of the gloomy silence that has fallen over them. When he sees the way Malfoy’s fingers tense around his fork he realizes that may not have been the best thing to say. “Were you, uh, working when it happened?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Why does it matter if I was, _uh_ , working?”

Harry forbids his brain from coming up with possible scenarios involving Malfoy with another person. In bed. Together. His brain decides to do it anyway, and Harry has to grab onto the edge of the dining table to keep himself from… from doing what, exactly? He shakes his head to clear it from those images—Malfoy bending over some unknown girl or, worse, _being_ bent over by some bloke—and concentrates on the way Malfoy manages to make eating with only one hand look elegant.

“If you were with someone,” Harry reasons, “that person is the most likely suspect, don’t you think? Ron told me you haven’t given Richardson any names yet.”

“I wasn’t aware my case was public,” Malfoy says as he takes a bite of his toast. “I thought Aurors weren’t allowed to discuss private information with civilians like you.”

Harry ignores the hurt spreading on his chest. Malfoy’s right, he’s not an Auror anymore. “They aren’t. But I know you’re lying about not remembering who did this to you.”

Malfoy acts alarmed. “Lie? Why would I lie about that, Potter?”

“Same reason everyone lies. You’re scared of telling the truth, maybe because you think there will be consequences to it.”

“There are always consequences to telling the truth,” Malfoy says quietly. “You of all people should know that.”

“Stop deflecting.”

Malfoy crosses his silverware on the plate and pushes it slightly away. He dabs the edge of his mouth with a white cloth napkin that has a giant B embroidered in dark green—Kreacher must have been going through his collection of Black antiques to find that one— and sighs. His hand trembles a bit as he puts the napkin down next to the plate. When his eyes meet Harry’s there’s no hatred in them, like Harry had been expecting to find, but a weariness Harry can relate to. He too feels exhausted.

“Let’s make a deal,” Malfoy says in a calm, collected voice. “I won’t pester you. I will be silent and grateful that you’re letting me stay with you for the time being. It’ll be like I’m not even here.” He smiles as if he’s just old some sort of private joke. “In return, all you have to do is refrain from asking me questions.”

Harry knows, for the sake of his own mental health, that he should agree to this truce, but his stomach clenches uncomfortably at the thought of being in the same room as Malfoy and treating him as if he’s not there. Crazily enough, he’d rather argue with Malfoy twenty-four-seven than go back to how his life has been for the past year. At least Malfoy’s quick on the trigger, he knows how to bite back. It keeps Harry on edge, unlike the stilted and often one-sided conversations he has with Ron and Hermione.

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Malfoy gives him a one-shoulder shrug. “Would you like me to start asking _you_ questions?”

Harry puts his hands up. “Ask away. Unlike you, I don’t have anything to hide.”

Malfoy stares at him. He leans forward, like a cat would when it’s cornering a mouse. “Why aren’t you an Auror anymore?”

Kreacher, who had probably been eavesdropping behind the door, hurries over to them and starts to pile up the dirty plates. He looks at Malfoy first, who notices this and gives him a reassuring smile that makes Harry’s blood boil. Didn’t Harry tell him he didn’t need to act like that? Kreacher, however, takes no notice of Harry’s sour mood. He bows one time and then another, asking _Master_ Malfoy what kind of foods he enjoys and if he’s allergic to any ingredients.

“It seems Potter was right, Kreacher. Your french toast is the best one I’ve had, too.”

Is he lying? Harry can’t tell.

Something resembling a blush creeps into Kreacher’s cheeks. “Kreacher has prepared the guest room for Master Malfoy. Kreacher can show it to him now if that’s what Master Malfoy wants.”

It’s Harry’s queue to leave. He doesn’t fancy sticking around, listening to Malfoy pointing out every little flaw he sees.

“I’m going to the study,” he announces. 

Harry pushes his chair back and gets up. Even though he wants to, he doesn’t slam shut the door of the study, closing it softly behind him instead. Once inside Harry shudders with relief. Not for the first time in his life is he happy to be away from Malfoy’s prying eyes.

*****

Harry leaves the study at half-past four. He’s been napping the day away, partly because he has nothing better to do but also because he had to get up early to fetch Malfoy from St. Mungo’s, something he hasn’t had to do in a while, and it’s messed up his routine. His standard wake up time is one in the afternoon. Getting up at such an ungodly hour as nine in the morning has turned his brain into warm mud. The only solution: a four-hour-long nap.

He’s surprised to find the dining room empty when he comes out. Checking the kitchen and finding it also empty, Harry tells himself Malfoy must be in his room. He’s skipped lunch, something that never happens, but instead of making himself something to eat he decides it’s time he read Hermione’s note.

_09.00 A.M - One Magi-Me-More pill with breakfast_

_15:00 PM - Apply Burn healing-paste on the chest area and right arm (forearm bandages must be changed daily and preferably after the paste has been administered)_

_19:00 PM - Apply Burning Bitterroot Balm on the forearm area only if there’s lingering pain or any itching_

_21:00 PM - Calming draught mixed with chamomile tea to avoid night fits (do not let Malfoy talk you into giving him more than the recommended serving)_

Harry checks his wristwatch: it’s five minutes till five. He should have checked Hermione’s note before going into the study to nap. Now he’s two hours behind schedule, which can only mean bad news.

“Malfoy,” he calls as he climbs the stairs. The guest bedroom is on the opposite end of the hall from Harry’s room. The door is closed and Harry only remembers to knock on the last second. “Malfoy, I need to change your bandages,” he tells him through the closed door.

Silence. Then, “Come in.”

Harry slips into the room and closes the door behind him. He’s not sure why he does it, it’s not like Kreacher would spy on them. Still, he feels better with the door closed. Harry notices Malfoy’s face looks worse than usual as he moves closer. The ashy, grey tone his skin had had at the hospital seems to have returned.

He’s lying on the bed, on top of the covers. The green duvet makes his eyes stand out. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Malfoy says slowly. It sounds like it’s a struggle for him to speak. “I was going to ask Kreacher to do it if you didn’t show up by five.”

Guilt washes over Harry. He pushes it away as he sits on the bed next to Malfoy.

“I fell asleep,” he says, rummaging through the drawer of the nightstand. His fingers brush against the cold bottles. He takes the blue one on a whim. It reads _Burning paste_ on the front. “Are you alright?”

Malfoy’s frown deepens. “Yes,” he says.

“You don’t look too good. What’s wrong?”

“My bloody arm feels like it’s on fire because you’re two hours late, Potter.” Malfoy tries to sit up, using his good arm for support, but it proves to be too painful. When he lifts his hand to brush some hair out his eyes Harry notices it’s trembling.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t read Hermione’s note.”

“Potter,” Malfoy says with a sharp intake of breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, okay. I’m… Can you take your arm out of the sling?”

Malfoy does so, not without a significant struggle. When his arm is free Harry takes his hand to inspect it better. Malfoy’s skin is hot against his as if he’s got a fever. The bandages have a pink tint to them near the wrist area.

Harry gets the small package of bandages from the second drawer and puts it on the bed next to Malfoy’s leg. “Alright, so… Let’s get these off you first.”

“You don’t say. Maybe you should put the new ones over the old ones.”

Harry hesitates. “Uh.”

“I’m joking, Potter. You have to take these off first, of course.” Malfoy rests his head against the pillows. He seems exhausted, which only makes Harry feel worse. It must hurt pretty badly. “Please,” he suddenly says, voice strained. “Just do it.”

Harry unwraps the bandages around Malfoy’s arm. The skin underneath is an angry shade of red and there are bumps on some places. Malfoy’s fingers look fine to Harry, but the rest of his arm…

His forearm is the worst part. That’s where the Dark Mark must have been yet nothing of it remains but the head of the snake, black and distorted beyond recognition. The skin looks like it’s been peeled off in places, and there are big red scabs on others. The burn spreads all the way to Malfoy’s shoulder, where it looks like it’s already healing. It’s a good thing Harry hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast or else it would all be coming back up right now.

He takes the lid off the vial and puts a significant amount of salve on the palm of his hand. It feels cold and wet. He rubs his hands together, as Hermione showed him. Malfoy stays silent, eyes closed as if he’s fallen asleep. When Harry’s fingers touch his arm he lets out an audible sigh.

Harry is thinking skin is not supposed to feel this warm when Malfoy speaks up.

“It’s the curse,” he says, even though Harry hasn’t asked. “Granger must have explained it to you. The heat comes from within, probably from the bone tissue.”

“Bones don’t produce heat.” Harry’s fingers brush against a scab. “Do they?”

“They don’t, normally. As I said, it’s the curse.”

“What does it feel like?” Harry asks, unable to stop himself.

Malfoy opens his eyes and narrows them, like he’s trying really hard to concentrate. He must be looking for the right word, Harry realizes. “Fiendfyre,” he says after a while.

“It didn’t burn you. I…” _saved you_. “We got away just in time.”

“I imagine this is how it would have felt like.”

Crabbe should know, Harry thinks and feels sick. He takes a look at Malfoy’s face and realizes he must be thinking of Crabbe too. Will they ever be able to speak to each other without the war sneaking up on them?

“That’s enough. I can manage the bandages on my own.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll do it. Should I wrap it tightly or…?”

“Tightly,” Malfoy says, clearly too tired to fight. “That’s how Granger did it, anyway.”

“I have to do your chest too.”

“My chest doesn’t hurt.”

“The note said—”

“Fine,” Malfoy says with a groan. “Whatever.”

Trying to spare Malfoy the embarrassment of not being able to take off his own shirt, Harry vanishes it for him.

Malfoy gives him a murderous look. “That was my favourite shirt, Potter.”

“Er, was it really?”

“No,” Malfoy barks, “but that doesn’t give you the right to make it disappear, you wanker.”

“I asked Richardson to bring some of your clothes, so it’s not like you’ll have to walk around naked. I’m sorry about the shirt, I wasn’t thinking.”

“When do you ever?”

Malfoy’s chest looks a bit better than his arm. There is a massive scab right over his sternum but the skin around it looks healthy. Harry puts more slave on his hand and presses his palm against the scab, looking at Malfoy’s face to see if it’s giving him any pain. Malfoy stares blankly at him and doesn’t complain. Harry’s about to lean back when he notices two small scars that look nothing like burns. They look like cuts. _I did that,_ Harry thinks in a frenzy, _I put those there._

Should he apologize now that he has the chance? Their eyes meet, and then Malfoy looks away. The opportunity to make amends dissolves as if made of thin air.

“Thank you,” Malfoy says reluctantly and overly-polite. “I’d appreciate if you could be on time tomorrow, Potter.”

Harry nods. “I will.”

He casts a Scourgify over his hands to clean off the rest of the salve, puts the lid back on the vial, and shoves it inside the drawer along with the packet of bandages. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s two minutes till six. Any other day he would be downstairs, listening to the wireless and staring at the ceiling. He wonders what Malfoy usually does at this hour. Harry considers asking but decides against it. Malfoy made it perfectly clear earlier he doesn’t want to answer any of Harry’s questions about his life.

Harry gets up. The bed creaks. “Would you like some tea?”

Malfoy lays back against the pillows. He looks as sick as he did at St. Mungo’s those first few weeks. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to come downstairs,” Harry says. “I’ll bring a tray up for you. Do you like Cadbury fingers?”

“Do I like what?”

Harry flushes. “It’s a Muggle brand of biscuits. They’re really good,” he adds defensively.

Malfoy blinks, says, “Are they actual fingers?”

“I’ll bring you some,” Harry says, biting on his knuckles to stifle a laugh.

He goes downstairs and starts the kettle. He arranges the biscuits in a plate along with the teacups and the sugar. Kreacher is nowhere to be found, and it only occurs to Harry that the elf didn’t prepare lunch when he’s already halfway through the stairs.

“You forgot the milk,” Malfoy tells him as soon as Harry lowers the tray onto the bed.

“I don’t have any.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow knit together. “There was a giant jug of milk at breakfast this morning.”

“I’m not going back downstairs,” Harry says, trying not to snap. He’s not sure he succeeds. “My knees hurt.”

“Merlin’s beard, what are you, eighty years old?”

Harry sits down on the edge of the table, sipping his tea. It burns his tongue. “Eighty-three. What gave me away? Was it the beard?”

Malfoy grabs his cup. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. You don’t have a beard, I’m afraid.”

“A stubble, a beard. Same thing.” Harry reaches out for a biscuit and munches on it. He doesn’t understand how Malfoy’s spent all his life without eating Cadbury fingers. Almost without thinking, he says, “You know what we should do to make the torture of living together bearable?”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitches. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve never watched a Muggle film, have you? We should watch some of them. The ones for kids are the best, even Hermione says so, and she’s picky about her films.”

“Hermione says so?” Malfoy laughs. Hermione’s name sounds weird coming out of his mouth. “At least be honest with yourself, Potter. _You_ want to watch children’s films.”

“So what if I do? Don’t _you_ want to know who Bambi is?”

“I…” Malfoy clears his throat. He looks down at the tray and reaches for a biscuit. Baby steps, Harry thinks. “Haven’t you watched them all already? You know, when you were a child.”

“I wasn’t allowed to,” he admits quietly.

He waits for Malfoy to say something sarcastic and rude. Harry doesn’t fancy having his horrible childhood turned into a joke for Malfoy’s amusement.

“I wasn’t allowed to either,” Malfoy says. There is no emotion Harry can read in his features. Even his voice is a mystery, giving nothing away. “Not that I wanted to watch Muggle films or anything.”

“I figured.”

“What is it about, this Bambi film you keep mentioning?” He’s trying to sound uninterested. Maybe he is. “Aeroplanes?”

Harry chokes on his biscuit. “Why would Muggles make children films about aeroplanes?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says, sounding offended. “I’m not a Muggle.”

“Why did you suggest it?”

“Aeroplanes don’t make sense. Perhaps children enjoy learning about them.”

 _To find out how aeroplanes stay up_ , Arthur Weasley’s voice says inside his head. He thinks of sharing that memory with Malfoy and freezes, remembering this is Malfoy. He wouldn’t appreciate being compared to Ron’s father, not in the slightest. The thought leaves an acrid taste in Harry’s mouth.

“It’s about a baby deer,” Harry manages. “He…” _loses his mother._ Bambi is definitely a film Harry doesn’t fancy watching with Malfoy. “I don’t really know what happens, I haven’t watched it.”

Malfoy scrunches his nose. “I hate deer.”

“It was a stupid idea,” Harry says, refusing to feel hurt by Malfoy’s lack of interest. “Forget I said anything.”

“What’s your favourite one?” Malfoy asks suddenly. “I don’t want my first Muggle film to suck.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “And you trust my judgement?”

“In any other field, no. But you were raised by muggles, weren’t you? It ought to be your area of expertise.” Malfoy grabs another biscuit. “Unless you also suck at that, which to be honest wouldn’t surprise me.”

“The Little Mermaid.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the film we’re going to watch tonight,” Harry says firmly. It’s Teddy’s favourite Disney movie. He pushes the thought away; thinking about Teddy only makes him feel worse.

“Why on Earth would Muggles make films about Merpeople?”

“You’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

“Potter.”

Harry struggles to find something to say. “Muggles seem to think Merpeople are hot.”

“Yes. I can see the benefits of the scales,” Malfoy says seriously. “It must add to the friction.”

Harry lets out a howl of laughter. It startles them both. He’s never laughed like that in front of Malfoy before. Malfoy’s never told a joke to him that didn’t involve insulting everyone Harry’s ever cared about. Harry’s stomach hurts from the force of his laughter, and he has to press his fist against his belly to calm himself down. He’s not sure what’s funnier, the idea of Merpeople actually being thought of as attractive or the fact that Malfoy has agreed with Harry on something.

“We can watch it after dinner.”

“Only if you’re not too tired,” Malfoy says, a ghost of a smile still lingering on his face. “Eighty-three-year-old men are quite fuzzy about their bedtimes, I’ve been told.”

Harry laughs again.

 _Bring it on_ , he thinks. He can handle this.

*****

Kreacher bangs his head on the kitchen counter. “Kreacher should have prepared lunch for Master Malfoy.” _Bump, bump, bump_. “Kreacher got carried away looking for the Blancmange recipe and forgot all about lunch.”

“I didn’t have lunch either, Kreacher,” Harry says, rinsing off the last mug left in the sink. Kreacher’s obsession with Malfoy is starting to get on his nerves. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Master Potter can cook,” Kreacher screeches. “Master Malfoy is a guest! Master Malfoy is also sick.”

Malfoy gives Kreacher an amused smile. “It’s fine, Kreacher. I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

Harry looks at him. It’s frustrating not knowing what Malfoy is thinking or if he means what he says. Malfoy must have been hungry. He must have also been in pain. Why didn’t he yell at Harry to change his bandages? Why didn’t he demand Kreacher made him lunch? It’s like Malfoy’s always doing the opposite of what Harry expects him to. Harry likes knowing where he stands with people and what to expect of them, but every new interaction with Malfoy somehow leaves him more confused than the previous one.

Kreacher pauses, his forehead barely two inches away from the edge of the counter. “There is only one way Kreacher can redeem himself.”

“I’m sure Malfoy doesn’t need you to re—”

“Kreacher will cook a feast. Yes. That’s what Kreacher will do.”

Harry checks his watch. “Alright.” He knows better by now than to argue with Kreacher. “Do you think we could eat it for lunch tomorrow, then?”

The elf nods enthusiastically. “Kreacher will cook all night.”

“Kreacher, you really don’t have to,” Malfoy says. “You should get some sleep.”

“Kreacher will not rest until Master Malfoy has had his feast,” Kreacher says, each word punctuated with a bow. “What should Kreacher cook for dinner tonight?”

Harry sighs. “Nothing. If you insist on cooking Malfoy a feast then that’s enough. I’ll order Chinese or something.”

Malfoy steps into the conversation just as Kreacher opens his mouth to protest. “I want Chow Mein,” he says. “And spring rolls,” he adds as an afterthought.

Harry can’t believe his own ears. “You’ve eaten Chinese takeaway before?” he sputters. “ _You_?”

Malfoy tilts his head to the side, studying Harry’s expression. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Have you gone bloody mad, Potter? What do you mean ‘why’?”

Kreacher’s head goes from left to right, observing the altercation silently. He too seems shocked by Malfoy’s declaration. Under different circumstances, Harry would take the time to explain to him that staring at people while they talk is impolite. Right now, all he can think of is that the person sitting in front of him can’t be Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t… I… It’s such a Muggle thing,” Harry manages to say, choking as the words tumble out of his mouth. “I mean, I never thought you would—”

Malfoy’s expression hardens. “Food is food,” he says in a weird voice. “I’ve also had Indian and Vietnamese. Oh, and I’ve eaten sushi too. I take it you know what sushi is?”

Kreacher disappears with a loud popping sound. He does have some manners after all.

Harry leans back in his chair, trying to get as far away as he can from Malfoy’s anger. The Malfoy he met at Hogwarts—also known as The Real Malfoy—wouldn’t be caught dead eating at Muggle restaurants. Not for the first time that day, Harry considers owling Hermione about the possibility that this is an impostor.

Should Harry not assume anything about Malfoy anymore? _It’s only been four years_ , he wants to shout. Surely Malfoy can’t have changed so much over the span of four years. Harry hasn’t. He likes the same things he liked when he was seventeen, roots for the same Quidditch teams, and despises the same people. How can Malfoy be so different when Harry has remained the same?

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” Harry settles for saying. “I’m more of a Sweet and Sour Chicken man myself,” he adds lamely. That’s how he feels around Malfoy. Lame.

Malfoy closes his eyes. “I’m paying tonight,” he says when he opens them again.

“That’s stupid. You’re staying at my house, remember? You heard Kreacher. Master Malfoy’s a guest.”

“Sod off, idiot. I’m paying, end of the discussion.”

 _I still owe you fifty galleons_ , Harry wants to retort but doesn’t. It would only make things worse. Harry’s put his foot in his mouth too often when Malfoy’s concerned.

“I’ll get the food. Sit tight.”

Malfoy snorts, looking down at the wheelchair he’s sitting in. “That I will.”

“You’re not paying,” Harry says. He grabs his keys and wallet from the blue bowl Hermione gifted him on his birthday and ignores Malfoy’s indignant calls. “Maybe next time.”

The place Harry usually gets Chinese food from is only a street away from his house, which is why it’s Harry’s favourite place to order from. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until the lady behind the counter hands over his bags and the smell of greasy, fried food hits him full on. Harry’s stomach complains loudly the whole walk back to Grimmauld Place, scolding him for having skipped lunch.

Malfoy’s still in the kitchen when Harry comes back. He’s watching Kreacher work feverishly on tomorrow’s feast, a knife chopping onions and potatoes by itself while something cooks at the stove.

“That was fast,” Malfoy comments. He wheels closer to Harry and inspects the bags. “It smells good.”

Kreacher mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like _defective taste buds_ and turns another page of his recipe book, ignoring Harry completely.

Harry hands Malfoy the bag with his food. “Let’s eat this while we watch the film.”

“Where?”

“Uh, on my couch?” Harry points at the studio’s door. “The telly’s in there. You know what a telly is, don’t you?”

Malfoy huffs. “Of course I do, I’m not an imbecile.”

“That’s not what I—you know what, you’re right,” Harry says, already walking towards the study. He’s too hungry to argue. “Of course you know what a telly is.”

Once they have both settled at each end of the couch, they reach for their respective boxes and dig into their food. Harry puts the film on and tries not to overthink the situation, deciding that if Malfoy’s company proves to be absolutely unbearable he’ll just take his food upstairs and eat alone in his room.

Malfoy eats the noodles of his Chow Mein using the chopsticks that came with the meal. He makes it look easy _and_ elegant. The Impostor—because there’s no way The Real Malfoy knows how to use chopsticks—frowns at the screen.“Is it a musical?” he asks when the sailors start singing.

“Yes.”

Malfoy chokes on a piece of chicken when the first merman appears. “Bloody hell, imagine if merpeople actually looked like that.” He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “I would have volunteered for the Triwizard Tournament in a heartbeat.”

Harry looks away from the screen and at Malfoy’s face. There’s no scorn there, no trace of condescension. It’s almost as if he’s enjoying the movie.

“How many daughters does he have?” Malfoy asks when Triton’s daughters start presenting themselves. “He must be a…”

“He must be a what?”

“Nothing.” Malfoy shoves more noodles in his mouth and points at the screen with his chopsticks. “That fish looks like you.”

“Flounder?”

“It sounds like you, too. It even has a red-headed friend.”

Harry bites into a spring roll. “In that case you’re Scuttle, Malfoy.” He’s, again, looking at Malfoy’s face to catch his reaction rather than the TV.

“I’ve never been that nice to you and Weasley,” Malfoy argues through another mouthful of noodles. “Nor have I ever been that excited to see you.”

“Perhaps not outwardly.”

Malfoy turns his head in Harry’s direction and catches him staring. He quickly looks back at the screen. “What’s up with her obsession with Muggle garbage? She seems awfully excited over a stupid fork.”

“It’s a dinglehopper,” Harry says at the same time as the seagull.

“That seagull’s so full of shit,” Malfoy says. Ariel hands over the pipe. “It reminds me of Lockhart.”

“You liked Lockhart,” Harry replies, unable to keep the grin out of his face. The Impostor is funnier than The Real Malfoy, another stark difference between the two. “Maybe you should have asked to be put in his room back in St. Mungo’s.”

“He’s still there, then?”

Harry nods. He reaches for another spring roll but there are none left. “Did you eat my last spring roll?”

Malfoy ignores the question. “I hope you have noticed the similarities between her,” he says, pointing at Ursula, “and another very dear Hogwarts Professor.”

“Oh, come on, she doesn’t look that much like Umbridge.”

Malfoy just laughs. Harry tries to pay attention to the film but ends up staring at Malfoy most of the time instead. He feels annoyingly content. The surreality of the situation is so big Harry’s brain can’t quite process it. He’s laying on the couch next to Malfoy, watching Disney’s The Little Mermaid, and it’s not horrible. That’s the part Harry’s sluggish mind has trouble grasping: the fact that he may even be enjoying this. They’ve been in the same house for almost twelve hours, according to Harry’s watch, and they haven’t murdered each other.

 _Yet_ , a tiny voice whispers in his head.

Ariel is dragging an unconscious Eric towards the shore when Malfoy speaks again. “Your hair’s longer than his.”

“I guess it is.” Harry’s fingers move instinctively to tuck the hair behind his ear before he realizes he put it up in a bun earlier. “Hermione’s been nagging me about it for months now. She says I need to get a haircut.”

“Why? It looks good.”

Harry freezes at the compliment. “She says it makes me look sloppy,” he says when he finds his voice again.

“You’ve always looked sloppy, Potter.” Malfoy puts his empty box on the coffee table and brings his knees to his chest. His feet look startlingly pale against the black cushions of the couch. ”I remember…” He trails off, voice dying down like a flame being put out.

“Go on,” Harry says. He mirrors Malfoy and brings his knees up to his chest after toeing off his shoes. “I believe you were about to insult me.”

“You always wore your ties loose in school,” Malfoy says quietly, “and the collars of your shirts were always wrinkled. It used to drive me mad.”

Harry doesn’t bristle at the comment. There’s something in Malfoy’s voice that makes Harry wary. “I was a teenager back then,” is all he can come up with. “I can clean up nicely when I have to nowadays.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Malfoy mutters, more to himself than to Harry. “You wore jeans to my trial.”

There’s a bitterness there Harry had not been expecting. Unsure of what he’s supposed to say to that, he stays quiet. Harry doesn’t particularly remember Malfoy’s trial. He’d already testified against Lucius—and Dolohov and Rockwood and the Carrows— and Malfoy’s was the last trial he had to attend. The only thing he remembers about that day is going out with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione to a Muggle bar after the sentence was delivered. It had been fun.

Now Harry feels the shame inside him like a knife to the stomach as he plays the memory of that night over in his head. They were celebrating, having fun. And Malfoy...

Again, as it often happens to him when Malfoy is concerned, Harry feels the need to explain himself. “I’ve always liked Muggle clothing best,” he says. “And I don’t think me wearing formal robes would have changed the outcome, Malfoy.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “That’s not what I was implying.”

“What were you implying then?”

“Nothing.” He waves his right hand, the good one, in a swift motion. “It doesn’t matter. The outcome is the same either way, as you’ve so brilliantly stated.”

Harry shouldn’t push it. He knows he’s walking on thin ice. “Why does it matter what I wore to your trial?”

“It doesn’t.”

“You said yourself I’ve always been sloppy,” Harry argues, incapable of letting it go. “Should I have worn a golden robe?”

Malfoy presses his forehead against his knees. “What an amusing sight that would have been.”

“Why won’t you explain wha—”

“I don’t feel like discussing this with you any longer, Potter,” Malfoy snaps at him. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“I just don’t understand what you want me to say,” Harry says, mainly because it’s the truth but also because he hates it when Malfoy gets the last word. “Is Muggle clothing so offensive to you?”

“It was just another day to you,” Malfoy says quietly into his knees. His mouth twitches the slightest bit. “You wore jeans. You got to go home when the trial was over. That’s what I meant.”

“What happened wasn’t my fault.” _Repented, seen the light, and made a switch_ , Ursula sings. “We all made choices during the war, Malfoy. It’s not my fault you made the wrong ones.”

As soon as the words are out, Harry wishes he hadn’t said them. Malfoy’s shoulders go stiff, his whole body frozen in place as if Harry’s hit him with a Petrificus Totalus. After what feels like an eternity of silence, Malfoy stands up. He stumbles three steps and sits down on his chair less than gracefully. His left hand is shaking when he lifts it to brush some strands of hair out of his eyes. The look he gives Harry leaves him feeling cold all over.

Harry gets up too. “Malfoy, I—”

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says icily. He’s not looking at Harry but at the door, already moving towards it. “You’re right, Potter. I was on the wrong side of the war. I haven’t forgotten it.”

“What I meant is that you, er. You sort of did try to kill Dumbledore,” Harry says, feeling more and more like a twat with every word he speaks. “And Katie Bell.”

“And Ronald Weasley.”

“I know you felt like you had no choice, but like… I guess what I’m trying to say is that you did. Kind of.” Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses. “But you chose wrong.”

“An obligation is not the same thing as a choice, Potter.” There’s a pause, and when Harry opens his eyes again he finds Malfoy has moved all the way to the door. “It may do you well to remember that. You were not the only one bound by duty during those years.”

He doesn't slam the door on his way out, something Harry had been expecting him to do. Malfoy sees himself out in complete silence, not once looking back.

Left alone, Harry vanishes the empty food boxes laying on the coffee table. He curls on the couch and stares at the ceiling, like he’s done many times in the last year. He never used to care much about ceilings before he got laid off. Now though, Harry knows every little detail there is to known about this ceiling. There’s a long, diagonal crack right above the couch. Harry’s stared at it so much he often dreams of it. In his dreams, the crack is not always on the ceiling. Sometimes it’s in wall or on the wooden floor. Sometimes it’s on Harry’s body.

The light coming from the screen is giving him a headache. He finds the remote squashed between the cushions but something makes him pause before turning the TV off. There’s a close up of Ursula’s face as she dances around her cave, trying to trick Ariel into making the wrong choice.

Ariel says, “But my voice, how can I—”

Harry switches it off. He knows the rest of the song by heart after seeing the movie so many times with Teddy. It was a stupid idea, he tells himself as he lays back down facing the couch. What did he think was going to happen? Malfoy’s not his friend, never has been and, by the looks of it, never will be. Harry’s only doing what’s right by letting him stay here until he’s strong enough to go back to his own place or until Hermione finds someone to look after him, whichever comes first.

 _It’s she who holds her tongue who gets a man_ , Ursula sings inside his head.

Harry presses his face into one of the decorative pillow and groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M SO SORRY I FORGOT I THOUGHT I HAD POSTED THIS ALREADY. I swear I'm not usually this dumb but in my defense uni is murdering me. I'll post the next chapter when I'm done writing my essay for this stupid class :/ sorry.  
> AND DRINK WATER!!!!!!


	5. 5

**5**

Something heavy sits on Harry’s chest. For a second, his disoriented mind recalls that article The Quibbler published nearly two years ago about sleep paralysis. People who’ve experienced it stated that they could feel as though someone was sitting on their chest, pressing against their ribcage and causing their lungs to be unable to expand to their full capacity. Xenophilius’s article concluded that the _pressure_ those people were experiencing was most likely occasioned by Corkles and Snits—creatures Harry had been one hundred per cent sure didn’t exist. Until now, when the thing sitting on his chest shifts.

Harry opens his eyes. Kreacher’s nose is almost touching his. “Can’t breathe,” he gasps, pushing the elf off him, trying to sit up. “What the hell were you doing, Kreacher?”

The elf promptly ignores him, walking in circles around the coffee table. “Master Malfoy did not come down for breakfast.”

It takes Harry longer than usual to understand what Kreacher’s talking about. Yesterday’s events come back to him in a rush. Right, Malfoy’s staying with him. Harry’s supposed to take him places and force-feed him the healing potions Hermione gave him.

Harry runs both hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. The potions. “What time is it?” He glances at the dilapidated grandfather clock on the wall. “Fuck. _Shit._ ”

He stumbles forward, hands tapping on every surface until they come across his glasses. Once the world had stopped being a blurred mess, Harry grabs his wand and hurries up the stairs with Kreacher tailing after him. By the time he’s made it to Malfoy’s room he’s out of breath and there’s a sharp pain stabbing his side. The door is closed, mocking Harry.

“Master Malfoy has not answered to Kreacher’s calls,” Kreacher says as he watches Harry patting his pockets to try and find his wand.

“Why didn’t you just Apparate inside his room if you were so concerned?”

“Master Potter forbade Kreacher from doing so,” the elf reminds Harry with petulance. “Master Potter said Kreacher was not to go into any room of the house if the door was locked. He told Kreacher about privacy and knocking—”

“I know what I said!” Harry snaps, knowing too well Kreacher is right. Harry _did_ give him an extensive talk about not barging into rooms or Apparating inside the house, but only because Kreacher kept walking in on him mid-wank. “ _Allohomora,_ ” he says and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

The room is in total darkness. Harry casts the curtains drawn open as he steps inside. He tells Kreacher to wait outside, not in the mood to hear him say the words _Master Malfoy_ so soon after waking up. Harry’s eyes feel crusty, like there’s sand in them, and his neck is so stiff from sleeping on the couch he can barely turn his head.

His right foot brushes against something as he makes his way to the bed. Looking down, he sees Malfoy’s blue sling lying there, along with some white gauze.

“Malfoy? What did you take these off for?”

Malfoy doesn’t answer. He’s nothing but an unmoving lump under the covers. _He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s—_

Harry tears the covers off the bed in a haste. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s lying on his stomach, his bandaged arm squished between his stomach and the mattress. His face is pressed against the mattress too, hidden away from Harry’s eyes. The sheets are wet around him, making it look like he hopped out of the shower and forgot to dry himself off before bed. It’s sweat, Harry realizes when his groggy brain decides it’s finally time to wake up completely. Malfoy’s sweating like a pig.

Harry grabs his shoulder and turns him around. He suppresses a shudder when he sees Malfoy’s arm. The bandages Harry put on his upper arm yesterday are fine, but it seems like Malfoy tore those around his wrist off, exposing the burnt skin.

Malfoy’s head lolls to the side, like a rag doll’s. “Potter?” he asks, eyes unfocused even though Harry’s right there in front of him.

“Why did you take these off?” Harry asks again, trying to suppress his anger. He’s mostly upset at himself for sleeping in again and forgetting he’s become Malfoy’s personal nurse, but redirecting that anger at Malfoy feels easy, familiar. “Are you taking the piss?”

Malfoy tries to sit up. He pauses when his hand touches the wet sheets. “Did I piss myself or something?”

“It’s just sweat,” Harry says. “I think so, at least.”

“My arm.” They both look down at it. There’s only a bit of skin showing, but it’s enough to make Harry’s stomach drop. “What time is it?” Malfoy demands, eyes in a frenzy. “You forgot the potions again, didn’t you? You bloody imbe—”

“Yes, I did. Also, yes, I’m an imbecile,” he says, taking out a small red bottle that reads Magi-Me-More from the drawer and shaking two pills out. “Now shut up and take these.”

Malfoy stares at him.

“What now?”

“A glass of water would be nice,” Malfoy says dryly.

Handing over the pills, Harry says, “Just take them.” He watches Malfoy’s throat working as he swallows them and barely resists the urge to tell him to open his mouth so he can make sure he’s not hiding them under his tongue. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Perfectly.”

Harry takes in Malfoy’s worn-out face. “Er, you don’t look well.”

“What is it to you?”

“Why did you take off your bandages?” Harry asks. He’s obviously not going to get any straightforward answer from Malfoy about his sleep patterns. Not that he cares how the bastard sleeps anyways. Let him stay up all night, for all Harry cares.

“I don’t remember taking them off.”

“How come you don’t remember?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows draw together a little. “I think I might have blacked out,” he admits quietly. He’s still looking down at his arm. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’ve got a fever,” Harry says, pressing the back of his hand against Malfoy’s damp forehead. He’s burning up. “It’s still early to change your bandages but since you’ve ripped them off I think maybe we should start with that. And then see what we can do about your fever.”

“It’s not my fault you forgot the Bitterroot Balm yesterday, Potter. My arm was itching like hell, that’s probably why I took the bandages off.”

“Well, excuse me. I’m not a fucking Healer, am I?” Harry sits down on the bed, carefully avoiding the damp spot Malfoy is lying on. “Why didn’t you yell for me?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. The fever has made his cheeks redder than Harry’s ever seen them. “I told you, I must have blacked out.”

If he’s lying, Harry can't tell. “Whatever. Next time just tell me. Why are so keen on acting like an idiot?”

“You forgot to give me my medicine and I’m the idiot?” Malfoy lets out a derisive laugh. “I could have died, Potter.”

“You’re not dying,” Harry says, his voice thick. He knows Malfoy’s just being annoying, but Harry’s not keen on letting anyone die under his watch. Never again. “Kreacher?” he calls. “Can you bring me some of Neville’s Feverfew extract? It’s in my—”

Kreacher almost knocks Harry’s glasses off when he dangles the bottle in front of Harry’s face. He must have been listening to their conversation from the doorway. “Kreacher is pleased to serve.”

Harry sighs. “Yes, I know you are.”

Harry uncaps the bottle of Feverfew and hands it over for Malfoy to take a sip. Malfoy’s taking so many potions one more can’t possibly hurt him. Although Harry should ask Hermione what to do if his fever persists. If he’s lucky maybe she will decide Harry’s had enough of this torture and come over to relieve him of it.

“Kreacher will be downstairs, working on the feast. Master Malfoy will eat lunch today, won’t he?”

Malfoy nods as he takes a long sip of the potion, effectively sending Kreacher on his way. He hands the bottle back to Harry. “It tastes… minty.”

Harry can’t help but smile. “I know. I used to complain about the bitter aftertaste all the time to Neville. He sent me this for my birthday. From Brazil.”

This year’s had been Harry’s most depressing birthday ever—and for someone who spent the first eleven years of his life not even celebrating the anniversary of his birth, that’s really saying something—but he’s not going to tell Malfoy that. Just thinking about it makes Harry feel uneasy, like he’s done something wrong. He had spent the last day of July sleeping and ignoring his friends and didn’t even open the presents they owled him until a week after. Hermione and Ron had tried to visit, but Harry sent them a note telling them not to come and blocked the Floo. Not that Malfoy needs to know any of that.

“So you’re still in touch with Longbottom?” Malfoy asks.

Harry nods, says, “Yeah, I’m still friends with pretty much everyone from Hogwarts. Haven’t seen Seamus since he moved back to Ireland, but we still owl sometimes. Luna can be… forgetful. But she always remembers to owl back after some time.” He feels Malfoy’s heavy gaze on him. “Why?”

“Brazil, you say?” Malfoy says quickly. “I’d never thought of Longbottom as much of a traveller.”

“He was studying Heliconia’s healing properties there.” Harry thinks so, at least. “He’s always excelled at Herbology. Also, Brazilian food is amazing, which might be why it took him so long to come back.”

“And how would you know?”

Harry shrugs. “There’s a Brazilian restaurant on Wilton Road I really like.”

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “I feel disgusting.”

“Oh, right. Wait, let me just…” Harry struggles to find his wand again. He snatches it from the nightstand. “ _Scourgify_.”

“The sheets are still wet.”

Harry flicks his wand and the dark spot on the bed disappears. Malfoy’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say anything. Harry bristles anyways. He knows he’ll have to wash the sheets properly at some point, but right now it’s not the time. And if Malfoy doesn’t like that, well, that’s too bad.

“ _Thank you, Harry,_ ” Harry says in a high-pitched voice that, disappointingly, sounds nothing like Malfoy’s. Switching back to his normal voice, he adds, “Oh, you’re welcome, mate.”

Malfoy ignores him. He looks at his hands, flexing his fingers like he’s itching for something he can’t touch. “I want my wand back.”

“They’re probably still running tests on it,” Harry says, although he’s not quite sure why Malfoy has not been given his wand back yet. It’s been six weeks. Maybe he’ll ask Ron about it. “It’d help move things faster if you decided to cooperate.”

“I’ve been cooperative, Potter. I gave the Aurors my wand, I granted them full access to my flat. What else am I supposed to do? Do their jobs for them?”

“You didn’t have a say in those things though. It’s a mandatory procedure,” Harry says. “What I mean is you should stop fooling around and talk to them.”

“ _Talk_ to them? Talk to them about _what_?”

“About who cursed you, for starters,” Harry says. “Richardson sounds like an alright—”

“An alright twat is what he is,” Malfoy says. “I only talked to him once and I’ve been awake for almost two weeks. He hasn’t even come around to collect my statement.”

Overcome with a sudden rush of protectiveness for the fellow Auror, Harry says, “Well, it’s not like you’ve made any effort to contact him.”

“I shouldn’t have to make an effort,” Malfoy snaps back. “It’s his job.”

“Well, what did you tell him when he went to see you at St. Mungo’s after you’d woken up? Hermione told me the interview lasted less than ten minutes.”

“I was high off my arse, Potter, I could barely tell him my full name.”

“Did you tell them about your job?” Harry asks, more brusquely than he’d have liked. He feels blood rushing to his cheeks. “They’ll find out eventually, you know that, right? What’s the point in delaying the inevitable?”

“That’s a good line for a suicide letter,” Malfoy says, ignoring the point of Harry’s questions. He shifts closer to the edge of the bed, lowering his feet to the ground. “I’m ravenous.”

“Well, Kreacher did offer you a feast, didn’t he?” Harry says. He notices Malfoy’s hesitation. “What is it?”

“I don’t fancy using that stupid chair today,” Malfoy says. “It’s bad enough that I don’t have my wand and my magic is… Whatever. I just don’t want to.”

Harry chooses his words carefully. “Why are you so against using it? You’re still weak— _yes_ , you are. Why is it such a big deal, Malfoy? It’s not like anyone can see you in it.”

“You can,” Malfoy bits out.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing a chair to get around,” Harry says slowly. “Some people need a cane or a walker. It’s fine, stop being so bloody dramatic.”

Malfoy frowns. “A walker?”

“It helps you walk.”

“Go figure.” There’s a pause. “You should bandage my arm first.”

“Right.”

Neither of them moves.

“Well?” Malfoy snaps after a while. “Are you going to do it or not?”

“After you get your arse on that chair.”

“Potter—”

“I went to Yorkshire a couple of years ago,” Harry says, effectively shutting Malfoy up. “A rich witch had opened a rehabilitation centre for those affected by the war. She wanted it named after me, but I refused.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “ _Obviously_.”

“I met a little girl there. Amelia.” Harry tries his best to remember what she looked like, but his memory’s always been awfully selective. He can only recall her blue shoe. “She was missing a leg.”

“I don’t need to hear this, Potter.”

“Wait.” Harry tilts his head to the side and a jolt of pain surges through his neck, making him wince. He’s never sleeping on that damned couch again.“She had to get around in a chair until they could make a prosthetic leg for her. And she wasn’t embarrassed by it. She—”

“What a sad sob story,” Malfoy says. He lets out a dramatic yawn. “I’m afraid it’s not going to work.”

“Will you just shut up?” Harry barks, louder than he originally intended. It’s like he can’t regulate his own voice around Malfoy.“What I’m trying to say is that she wasn’t bothered by it because there’s no reason anyone should be. It’s a tool, something designed to help people. Like wands.”

“Are you honestly comparing wheelchairs to wands?” 

Harry nods stubbornly, refusing to let Malfoy make him feel embarrassed. “Yes, I am, you ableist prick.”

“Able-what?”

“I don’t know why I even bother with you,” Harry says, getting up. Suddenly, he can’t get out of the room fast enough. Fuck changing Malfoy’s bandages.“I’ll be downstairs. Come down when you’re ready. Or don’t, I don’t care.”

Downstairs in the dining room, Kreacher has gone full out. There are napkin rings and lit candles and the good silverware, the one Kreacher hid from Harry after he caught him using it to eat ramen. It all feels bizarrely intimate, like the kind of lunch one would share with a lover. The thought makes Harry’s empty stomach clench on itself. Taking a seat at the table, Harry pretends not to notice how strange the dining room looks and, even worse, how weird it is to see another plate beside his on the table.

After a while Malfoy comes downstairs, clutching the bannister like a lifeline. The sight of him walking makes Harry angrier than he’s felt in a long time. Why does he have to be such a stubborn bastard? Doesn’t he realize that if he falls and hurts himself it’s going to be even longer until he can leave? Harry’s anger dies down when Kreacher Apparates at the end of the stairs with Malfoy’s chair. It makes Harry wonder how Malfoy made it to his bedroom last night after storming out of the study. Did he ask Kreacher for help or did he crawl up the stairs like a child just learning to walk?

They eat in silence. The first course is kidney pie, which tastes exactly like the one Harry used to eat at Hogwarts. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s probably the same recipe, given the time Kreacher has spent helping around in the castle’s kitchen it’s likely he’s memorised it. After that, Kreacher brings them what Harry can only guess is some sort of fish with herbs. Malfoy seems pretty familiar with it, so perhaps it’s some sort of pureblood traditional dish. Purebloods strike Harry as the kind of people who enjoy eating fish. Dessert, much to Harry’s disappointment, consists of Blancmange. He had been hoping for Treacle Tart.

Once the meal is done Harry decides it’s probably time to change Malfoy’s bandages. He does so in the dining room after Kreacher has vanished all the plates. Malfoy, for once, doesn’t seem to have anything to say. He stares at the ceiling as Harry rubs the salve on his arm, not even complaining when Harry accidentally presses too hard on a scab and the skin breaks open. He doesn’t even thank Harry once it’s all done.

“I’ll be in the study,” Harry says. “Don’t bother Kreacher too much.”

Malfoy snorts. “I wouldn’t dare.”

In the study, Harry sits at the desk and tries to write a letter to Hermione. After three failed attempts—he can’t seem to find anything worth mentioning that does not revolve around Malfoy—he settles for writing to Luna instead. If the letter ends up not making any sense Harry knows she won’t mind.

When he’s finished with that one he starts to write one for Neville too, on a whim. He scribbles down a few lines about the Feverfew extract and thanks him profusely, not once mentioning Malfoy. It’s almost four in the afternoon when he finishes both letters and, because he has nothing better to do, he ends up grabbing another parchment scroll and writing a third letter, this time addressed to Seamus.

He’s about to sign that one when there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Harry says, realizing a beat too late that it’s probably not Kreacher.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Malfoy says when Harry puts down his quill.

His polite tone makes Harry frown. “It’s fine,” he says. “Is there something you need?” he adds when Malfoy doesn’t speak.

“Not really.”

Harry closes his eyes, counts to fifty, and says, “Malfoy.”

Malfoy wheels himself closer to Harry’s desk. “I’m bored, Potter.”

“And how is that my problem?”

“As I see it, one of the most important parts of our agreement is that you should keep me from going bollocks,” Malfoy explains. “I once read a book about a man who went crazy with boredom.”

Harry folds Seamus’s letter and adds it to the small To Be Send pile. “I’m not a clown, Malfoy. I’m not here to entertain you.”

“A clown?”

“Someone who wears funny clothes and has big feet,” Harry says. “Or big shoes. I don’t know, I’ve never seen one without shoes on.”

“I see,” Malfoy says solemnly. “In that case, you’re half-clown. Your clothes are funny-looking.”

Without thinking, Harry looks down at himself. “What’s funny about this jumper?”

“It’s too large.” Malfoy leans forward to get a better view of Harry’s loafers. “Your feet look normal, at least.”

“They don’t just look normal, Malfoy. They _are_ normal.”

Malfoy waves dismissively. “Same thing, really. Do you want to know what’s not normal-sized, Potter? Your head. It’s humongous.”

“Why don’t you read a book?” Harry says, pointing at the other end of the room, where rows of books lined up the shelves of the library. “I trust it you know how to read?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes and wheels away. Harry watches him inspect the books on the lower shelves, which are the ones he can reach, and take one out to examine it more carefully. The whole thing feels awfully intrusive, even though this isn’t Harry’s personal library or anything. In fact, Harry hasn’t read a single one of these books, partly because they belonged to Sirius’s family and partly because he hates reading. Still, the whole thing makes Harry feel inexplicably self-conscious.

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” Malfoy reads out loud. The book looks small in his hands. “Have you read it?”

Harry considers telling Malfoy it’s a Muggle book but quickly decides against it. He knows exactly how that book ended up there—it’s Hermione’s, the one she refused to take back home with her after finishing it over tea during one of her visits—and he also knows, although vaguely, what it’s about. He remembers Hermione saying something about enemies when she was done with it. Why tell Malfoy who Jane Austen was? He wouldn’t read it if he knew the woman who wrote it wasn’t a witch.

“No, I haven’t,” Harry replies. “I’m not much of a reader.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me at all, Potter?” Malfoy asks, never lifting his eyes from the book. “I’ve never heard of her. Jane Austen. I suppose she was a Muggleborn?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. “Now stop pestering me. I’ve got work to do.”

“No, you don’t,” Malfoy says with a smile. “I’ll take the couch if that’s fine with you.”

“I don’t care. Just stop talking.”

Malfoy spreads across the couch, leaving his wheelchair forgotten to the side, opens the book and starts to read. Barely ten minutes have passed when he speaks again. “Is this from the Unmagical Period?”

“What?” Harry asks, not looking up from his letter.

“The Unmagical Period, Potter.” When Harry doesn’t reply, he lets out a long sigh. “It was a literary movement that lasted, what, seven years? Wizards and witches would write stories with no magical themes in them.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“Obviously.”

Harry looks up then, only to find Malfoy staring back. “Why should I know about them? They don’t sound particularly interesting.”

“They weren’t allowed at my house,” Malfoy says.

“What, books?”

“Muggle themed ones.” His eyes fall on the book again. “Stop talking, Potter. You’re disrupting my reading.”

“You’re the one who started talking to me.”

Harry goes back to writing his letter. He invites Seamus over like he does every year and tells him to bring his latest girlfriend with him—because he knows Seamus won’t come back, neither alone nor with his girl. He hasn’t come back once in four years, so Harry feels safe inviting him over. It’s the polite thing to do.

When he’s done and his back starts hurting, he gets up and walks to the couch where Malfoy’s lounging on. “Budge over.”

Malfoy makes a noncommittal sound but still moves his legs to make room for Harry. He’s completely absorbed in his book, turning the pages at a pace that reminds Harry of Hermione. He even smiles sometimes.

“Is there something on my face?” Malfoy asks out of the blue, and Harry quickly looks away, only then realizing he’d been staring.

“Are you enjoying it?”

“I’m not even halfway through,” Malfoy says, “but so far so good.”

“What is it about?”

Malfoy dog-ears the page he’s currently reading and closes the book. “It’s about Muggles’ obsession with marriage,” he says, finally looking up.

A laugh escapes Harry. “I’m pretty sure wizards feel just as strongly about marriage, Malfoy. Especially…”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Especially?”

“Well, you know.” Harry thinks his words through. He doesn’t want this conversation to lead to another argument. “Isn’t marriage really important to purebloods?”

“In a way, it is.” Malfoy turns the book in his hands. “In a way, it is not.”

“How come?”

“Pureblood families place a lot of value on marriages because it ensures that the line remains…” He pauses. “Clean. Other than that, marriage is nothing but civility.”

“Civility,” Harry echoes. “That sounds sad.”

“It depends. Some people get lucky. Just because it’s an arranged marriage doesn’t mean you’re bound to be miserable all your life,” Malfoy says. He avoids Harry’s eyes. “My parents liked each other.”

“That’s nice,” Harry says awkwardly. This is the first time Malfoy’s mentioned his parents. “I just have a hard time understanding how people can marry out of obligation.”

Malfoy snorts. “It’s been that way for centuries, Potter. And it’s not a pureblood exclusive thing, either.” His thigh brushes against Harry’s, and he quickly pulls away. An awkward silence falls over them, and then Malfoy says, “I was supposed to marry Daphne Greengrass’s sister. Did you know that?”

Harry’s stomach clenches uncomfortably. “Astoria.”

Malfoy gives him a small nod. “She lives in France now, I think.”

“What happened?”

“I went to Azkaban,” Malfoy says casually. Harry envies his composure. “You’d be surprised by how small the dating pool became for Death Eaters after the war.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He thinks saying ‘ _yeah, well, try dating when you’re Harry Potter’_ may come across as a bit insensitive. “Did you want to marry her?” 

“No. Every cloud has a silver lining, I suppose.”

Harry frowns. “Where did you hear that?”

“It’s a proverb.”

“A Muggle proverb,” Harry corrects him. He remembers Malfoy’s words from weeks ago. _Find a job you enjoy doing and you won’t work a day in your life._ “Are you hanging out with Muggles now, Malfoy?”

Malfoy sits up, straight-backed. “Am I not allowed to? Has the Ministry passed a new imposition on Death Eaters that I’m not aware of?”

Harry’s too tired to fight. He thought they were getting on again, being civil to each other. He had even been enjoying their conversation. Why does everything have to be so hard with Malfoy? Harry’s becoming increasingly tired of having to measure his words in his own house. He’s doing Malfoy a favour by letting him stay here. Shouldn’t that make him more reluctant to start an argument with Harry every two minutes?

“You know why I’m asking,” Harry forces himself to say. “You hate them.”

“I don’t hate them. Hate is a strong emotion.” Malfoy’s eyes flicker to the book on his lap. “I’m indifferent towards them.”

“Yeah right, indifferent my arse. You think you’re better than them because you’ve got magic and they don’t. Am I wrong?”

“Not in the slightest. I’m indifferent towards them _and_ I think they’re inferior. Those aren’t mutually exclusive ideas, Potter.”

“I don’t want to argue with you right now,” Harry says, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV. “Do you want to finish watching yesterday’s movie?”

Malfoy opens his mouth and closes it. Then he opens it again and says, “Alright.”

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do. It wasn’t terrible,” Malfoy says. “For a Muggle film, I mean.”

They watch the rest of The Little Mermaid in complete silence. Harry checks on Malfoy every once in a while, thinking he might have fallen asleep because he’s so quiet and still, but he always finds Malfoy staring at the screen attentively, his big grey eyes never darting away. 

When the screen goes black after the wedding scene, Malfoy turns to Harry and says, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Harry _tries_ to feel angry, but Malfoy looks so serious it’s ridiculous, so he ends up laughing instead. “I knew the happy ending would be too much for you, Malfoy.”

“The ending’s fine,” Malfoy says and then stills as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean, it’s not _fine_ , but it’s not the worst part.”

“What’s the worst part then?”

“For starters, she gave up everything so she could be with a bloke she barely knew,” Malfoy says heatedly. Maybe his fever’s back. “She gave the witch her _voice_. Also, why is Ursula portrayed as the villain? Isn’t that stupid?”

“Er, because she’s evil?”

Malfoy leans closer to Harry and raises his voice. “She’s a bloody witch!”

“So? Witches can be evil, too.”

“They kicked her out of the palace because of it, Potter! Were we even watching the same film?”

Harry laughs again. The sound scares him because he can’t control it; it seems to burst out of him with every stupid comment Malfoy makes. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, gasping for air. He laughs harder when Malfoy scowls. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“She wanted to make them pay for kicking her out. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that.”

“She tried to murder them all in the end.” Harry rubs at his jaw. It’s beginning to ache. “She was evil, Malfoy. Just admit it.”

Malfoy leans back against the couch. They’ve shifted closer while Harry wasn’t paying attention and now their shoulders are touching. Malfoy looks like a child. A stubborn, sulky and annoying child. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and shoves it in Harry’s hands without a word.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

Malfoy huffs. “Put on another one. A _good_ one.”

Harry holds his breath. “What?” he asks softly and hates himself for it. Malfoy may act like a child but he isn’t one. He clears his throat. “Are you sure?”

“Circe’s cunt, Potter, just do it.”

“Okay. I… Er, which one should I—”

“I’m already regretting this,” Malfoy says. “Just so you know.”

“Well, which one would you like to watch? You’re going to bitch about whatever I choose, so you may as well pick one yourself.”

“I don’t know what any of them are about, Potter.” Malfoy pauses. “Come to think of it, why do you own more than one of these films? Aren’t you too old for them?”

“I watch them with Teddy,” Harry says slowly. “Or I used to, I guess.”

“Hmm, I should have known my cousin would have such terrible taste. How old is he anyway?”

“Four,” Harry says. “And he’s not your cousin.”

“He sort of is, actually. He’s my first cousin once removed.” Malfoy clears his throat and starts picking at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. “Is he well?”

The question startles Harry, who had not been expecting Malfoy to inquire after Teddy at all, let alone ask if he’s _well_. As if he cares. Just because they’re related by blood doesn’t mean they’re family, not in Harry’s opinion at least. He wouldn’t call Petunia Dursley his family, and she’s Harry’s actual aunt.

“Yes,” Harry says tightly, wishing Malfoy would drop the subject. He can’t help but wonder what Teddy gets up to these days. He must be driving Andromeda crazy, asking her to take him to the park every single day, especially now that it’s Autumn and there are crunchy leaves to step on. Autumn’s always been his favourite season. “He likes _Hercules_. The Disney movie, I mean.”

“Oh. Maybe…” Malfoy licks his lips. “Maybe we should see that one.”

Harry tries to smile. “You’ll like it. It’s got wicked songs.”

Teddy knows them all by heart. He used to sit on Harry’s lap and sing, bellowing out the words. He used to—

“Songs?” Malfoy moans. “Another musical?”

“I heard you humming along to _Kiss the girl_ just now, Malfoy. Don’t act like you’re above musicals.”

“Shut up, Scarhead. Put it on so I don’t have to listen to your annoying voice any longer.”

Harry swallows down another laugh. “As you command, Master Malfoy.”

*****

Hermione shows up, uninvited and unannounced, on Friday—the fifth day of Harry’s seemingly never-ending torture of putting up with Malfoy’s annoying presence in his house. The Floo alarm goes off at six, and it startles Harry so badly he almost drops the mug he had been drinking out of. He ignores Malfoy’s curious expression at the loud wailing sound and focuses on not spilling any more of his drink on himself.

Hermione walks out of the study and into the dining room still in her Healer robes, lime green and remarkably clean after a twelve-hour shift at St. Mungo’s. Her eyes widen when they land on Malfoy like she’s forgotten why he’s sitting at Harry’s dining table, a Cadbury finger sticking out his mouth like a cigar.

“I should have owled you,” she says, bending down to hug Harry’s rather petrified body. “It’s been such a crazy day it slipped my mind.” She nods at Malfoy, who nods back at her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” she asks tentatively enough to make Harry choke on his tea.

Harry coughs. “No, no. _No_. We were just having tea. Would you like a cup, ‘Mione?”

Hermione smiles. She sits down next to Harry after hanging her purse off the chair’s ear. “I’d love one. I’ve had…” she uses her fingers to count, which elicits a snort from Malfoy. “...four coffees today. No tea.”

Harry pours her a cup under Malfoy’s supervision. He manages not to burn himself with the kettle or overflow the cup, something that happens more often than he’d like to admit. He’s not sure why Hermione being here is making his nerves go crazy. She’s been here a billion times. It’s probably weird because Malfoy is here now, judging Harry’s tea-pouring skills and thinking nasty thoughts. Probably.

“So,” Harry says, sick of listening to his own thoughts, “busy day, you say?”

Hermione takes a sip of her tea. “Someone put Babbling Beverage in some of the Auror trainees’ drinks this morning. My head felt like it was going to explode. I don’t know why they think that kind of stuff is funny.”

It’s a common thing amongst Senior Aurors to prank those who have only started their training. He and Ron had had to go through it too—although their training only lasted six months instead of a full year, courtesy of Kingsley. The prank that year had consisted of an elaborate spell that forced whoever was under it to flirt shamelessly with the first person they laid their eyes on. In Harry’s case, it had been Amelia. Ron, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He professed his undying lust to a random passerby who slapped him so hard across the face the imprint of her fingers was like a tattoo on his cheeks that took hours to fade. Harry pushes the memory away hastily, afraid of what may happen if he lets himself dwell on it any longer. Those days are long gone.

When he comes out of his trance Harry realizes the noises he keeps hearing are actually Hermione and Malfoy having a conversation. He blinks several times and pinches himself subtly on the leg under the table. Having discarded the option of this being a dream, he settles for the only logical explanation left: he’s gone, in fact, mad.

“—arriving any day now,” Hermione’s saying.

Malfoy shakes his head defeatedly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how long it takes. My magic’s still shit. Having my wand back won’t change that, will it?”

“It’ll get easier,” Hermione tells him. She stretches a bit and pats Malfoy on the shoulder, the good one. “Cheer up, Malfoy. It’s not so bad.”

Malfoy looks at the spot on his arm Hermione just touched and grimaces. “It’s not so bad? How could this be any worse, Granger? Please, let me know.”

“The curse could have hit you full on the face,” Harry blurts out. He doesn’t like that they’re having a conversation without including him in it.“Come to think of it, that might not have been so awful. It could have improved your looks.”

Malfoy stiffens. He points the biscuit he’s holding at Harry, waving it like an accusatory finger. “You’re one to talk, Potter. Your face looks like The Dark Lord had a go at it. Oh wait, he _did_.”

“Your face—”

“Is this what you do all day?” Hermione interrupts. She pours herself another cup of tea. “You bicker more than Ron and I do, and you’re not even married.”

Harry’s face goes up in flames. For a moment, he wonders if he’s having some sort of heatstroke. “Why on Earth would you say that?”

Hermione ignores him. “So, Malfoy. Can I check your arm?” When Malfoy nods, she begins to take the bandages off his outstretched arm. “The scabs are healing up nicely. Any viscous discharge?” Malfoy shakes his head. “Swelling? Hot flashes?”

“Uh,” Harry steps in, earning a glare from Malfoy. “He had a fever a couple of days ago.”

“How high?”

“What?”

“She’s asking how high the fever was, idiot,” Malfoy says.

Right. “Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t check,” Hermione finishes for him. “It’s okay. You should, next time. I think I’ve got a thermometer in my purse I can lend you.”

“I gave him some Feverfew,” Harry amends lamely.

Hermione smiles at that. “Neville’s.” She presses the tips of her fingers against the skin of Malfoy’s forearm. “Can you feel this?”

Malfoy swallows thickly. “No.”

She frowns and moves her fingers an inch. “This?”

“No.”

“Can you move your fingers?” Hermione asks, letting go of Malfoy’s arm to let him demonstrate. His movements are clumsy and slow, and he only manages the slightest twitch of his fingers. “Can you fist your hand?”

Malfoy tries. The result is the loosest fist Harry’s ever seen. “Bloody hell,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Hermione tells him, shooting a look at Harry that reads _do not ask now_. “Your muscles are atrophied, that’s all. It’ll get better once you start physical therapy. How’s your chest?”

“Fine.”

“Can I see?” Hermione asks. Harry wishes he had her patience. Or her brains. She casts Malfoy’s button-up shirt open after he grudgingly agrees to show her. The scars don’t look particularly bad to Harry, which is why he’s surprised to see Hermione frowning when she touches them.

“What is it?” Harry asks. If something’s not looking right then it’s probably Harry’s fault, a thought that annoys him more than it worries him. “Is there something wrong?”

Hermione retrieves her hand. “How long has it been like that?” she asks Malfoy.

Malfoy hesitates. “Two days.”

“Will you _please_ let me in on your conversation?” Harry snaps.

“The scars feel warmer than they should,” Hermione explains. She doesn’t seem fazed by Harry’s sudden outburst. Neither does Malfoy. “We need to keep an eye on that.”

“Why?”

Malfoy leans back against the chair like it has all been a huge ordeal to him, even though he didn’t even have to get up. “The curse could be spreading,” he says calmly. “That’s Granger’s theory, at least.”

Hermione bristles up. “Well, maybe if I knew what kind of curse I’m dealing with, it wouldn’t be so hard to understand how it works!”

“Are you really blaming the victim here?” Malfoy hides his face behind his hands, pretending to cower from Hermione’s words. “I thought one of the subjects required to complete Healer training was Sympathetic and Ethical Discourse.”

“Spreading?” Harry asks.

“He was extremely lucky the curse struck him on the arm and the sternum. If it had reached the organs… I’m not sure what we’d be looking at right now.” Hermione says although it’s clear she knows what they’d be looking at. Malfoy’s corpse, most likely. “I gave Malfoy some fortified Lily Bulb drops when he first arrived at St. Mungo’s to make sure the heat was contained. If his fever returns or the scars start to burn he may need to take some more.”

Harry’s brain struggles with the bulk of information received. “Isn’t there a more permanent solution? A cure or something?”

“There must be,” Hermione says firmly, looking at Malfoy like she’s trying to convince him of it. “It’s a dark spell. Subduing the heat and curing the superficial wounds is the best we can do for now.”

“There’s no mention of those drops on the note you gave me, Hermione. Shouldn’t he be taking them every day?”

Malfoy snorts for what feels like the fiftieth time in the day. “They’re highly addictive, Potter. Also, they’re famous for rapidly decomposing your liver.”

Harry resists the urge to bite Malfoy’s head off. “How the fuck would I know that?”

“Fourth-year Potions, Harry,” Hermione says and smiles apologetically when Harry scowls. She turns around and rummages through her bag. “I’ll leave this with you.” She hands him the thermometer. “And I’ll be leaving now. I only wanted to make sure Malfoy was okay.”

“I haven’t murdered him in his sleep if that’s what you were concerned about,” Harry says, getting up to walk Hermione to the Floo. “Yet.”

“He’s got an appointment on Monday with Healer Bullwark. I’ll owl you the details tomorrow.”

“What is it for? The appointment, I mean.”

“Bullwark specializes in magic restoration and rehabilitation. He’s also really interested in Muggle medicine, think of him as some sort of kinesiologist,” she says. “Malfoy’s magic is pretty weak, and it’s only going to get worse if he doesn’t start using it again soon.”

Malfoy catches up to them. "When will I be free of this stupid chair, Granger? Can’t you have Potter cast a Strengthening Charm at my legs or something?”

Hermione covers her mouth as she yawns. “You should try to walk around a bit,” she says, edging closer and closer to the Floo. “Make sure Harry’s there to catch you if you fall.”

Malfoy seems distraught. “Potter can’t even catch a Snitch these days and you’re telling me I should trust him with my body?”

“Of course I can still catch a Snitch, you fucking bastard!”

Hermione whips around so fast her hair slaps Harry across the face. “I almost forgot! Ron asked me to tell you Richardson wants to talk to Malfoy again. I told him I’d ask you if he can come here.” Her gaze shifts between them. “I mean, you could take Malfoy to the Ministry, but I think it’s best if he doesn’t expose himself unnecessarily.”

Whatever, Harry thinks. The sooner Richardson solves the case the better. “Okay, that’s fine. Don’t forget to owl me about Bullwark.”

She turns to go and then stops again. “Molly asked me to invite you to the Burrow this Sunday.” Hearing her call Mrs. Weasley _Molly_ makes Harry feel weird. She only started doing so after she and Ron got married, and Harry’s still not sure he likes the change. In a quiet voice, she adds, “Ginny will be there since, you know, the season’s over.”

“Oh,” is all Harry manages to say. He looks down and finds Malfoy staring at him. “I can’t go, I’ve got to watch Malfoy.”

“I’m not a fucking child, Potter.”

“He’s right, Harry.” She looks stern and completely over Harry’s poor excuses. “It’s just for lunch. Kreacher can watch Malfoy while you’re gone.”

Malfoy chokes. “I don’t need—”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry says.

Hermione looks like she wants to add something, but when another yawn takes over she seems to decide it’s not worth it. This time she steps into the Floo for good and disappears into a cloud of red smoke.

Harry stands awkwardly in front of the fireplace. He can’t believe the thoughts running through his mind. Could it be that he’d rather stay in with Malfoy than go have lunch with the Weasleys? It’s not all Weasleys he’s concerned about though. Only Ginny.

 _Don’t disappear from her life_ , Hermione had told him two months after the break-up when Harry had refused to step foot in the Burrow for the twelfth time in a row, _it’ll break her heart. You said you’d remain friends_. Harry had wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He had done neither. The bloody nerve. Break her heart; as if Harry was some sort of psychopath who got off on hurting people. No one had seemed concerned about _his_ heart, about how Harry had felt it chipping away for months until nothing of it remained. Things had been fine, though, because Harry had had his job to focus on, a job he loved as much as he had loved Ginny. Maybe even more.

Harry hasn’t seen her in five months and they haven’t spoken in seven. It’s bound to be an awkward, stilted lunch, and Harry doesn’t want to ruin everyone else’s fun with his presence. Besides, he’s not sure he wants Ginny to see him like this. Last time they talked was just after Harry had lost his job, and she’d said some things…

No. Harry won’t go there, not today.

Back in the present, Malfoy’s looking at him with a curious expression on his face. Harry thinks he knows what Malfoy’s thinking, what he’s itching to ask, and Harry’s not ready to talk about it. He’s never talked about it, not even to Ron and Hermione. Doing so with Malfoy sounds like the worst kind of psychological torture.

Malfoy, as usual, is full of surprises.

“Help me up,” he commands. “You heard Granger. I need to start walking if I don’t want to end up with arthritis at the tender age of twenty-two.”

“You don’t need me to help you stand up. You do it on your own all the time.” Harry moves closer, taking hold of Malfoy’s right arm to steady him as he gets off the chair. It’s strange seeing him up. He’s a couple inches shorter than Harry. “Wait. Let me cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor in case you fall.”

“In case you drop me,” Malfoy argues. He watches enviously as Harry points his wand at the hardwood floor under their feet and casts. “Just so you know, Potter, I’ll sue the fuck out of your arse if you do.”

Harry laughs. “Hold onto me, then.” Malfoy tries to, but the angle is awkward and his sling gets in the way. “Let’s just…”

Harry pushes the chair out of the way. He snakes one arm around Malfoy’s waist, forcing Malfoy to drape his good arm over Harry’s shoulders to keep from falling. Harry can feel the ghost-like touch of Malfoy’s fingertips against the naked skin of his shoulder where his sleeve has ridden up and has to bite down on his tongue to keep from giggling because it _tickles_.

“Do you have any idea how many of your squealing fans would murder their own parents to trade places with me right now?” Malfoy asks as he takes a tentative step. Then another. “I can’t say I’ve ever felt as important as I do now with your arms around me, Potter.”

Despite knowing Malfoy’s joking, Harry blushes. “Fuck off.”

Malfoy widens his eyes to feign innocence. “Did I offend you, Mr Potter? Sir,” he says, savouring every moment of Harry’s torture.

“I said fuck _off_.”

Their hips brush from time to time as Malfoy takes a stroll around the room with Harry as his human cane. Malfoy feels very warm against Harry, so warm it’s distracting. The hand Harry’s got on Malfoy’s waist grows warmer too, like he’s holding it over a stove.

Malfoy smells of mint and lavender, the standard fragrance of a recently performed Scourgify. Harry decides to breathe through his mouth to avoid it. Not because Malfoy smells bad, although perhaps a little artificial, but because they’re standing too close to each other and Harry’s scared. He’s scared because he thinks Malfoy smells good—another sign that he’s officially gone off the racks.

“Where do you keep all your love letters?” Malfoy asks, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s shoulder. His knees buckle the tiniest bit under him, but he pushes on. “I haven’t seen your owl once since I’ve been here. Do you even have one?”

“Why? Are you thinking of borrowing it?” He thinks of telling Malfoy about the little cottage in Godric’s Hollow—and about the hundreds, if not thousands, of letters that have been collecting there for months— but discards the idea almost instantly. Malfoy would only tease Harry further if he knew about it. “My owl’s cage is in the attic. She likes it better there.”

Malfoy clicks his tongue. It’s a flash of pink in his mouth, a stark contrast against the white of his teeth. “So you _do_ receive love letters.”

“Yes,” Harry admits before realizing it makes him sound like an arse. “I mean, not that often, just… Yeah,” he finishes pathetically.

“You’re not subscribed to the _Prophet_.” Malfoy’s leg brushes against his. “Although I suppose It must get boring after a while, seeing your name on the tabloids.”

“The pictures are the worst part,” Harry says. He moves his hand away from Malfoy’s waist and up the small of his back. The skin under the clothes is just as hot there. “The people from the _Prophet_ followed me everywhere. I couldn’t even visit Ron and Hermione without being papped.”

“Follow _ed_? As in, they don’t anymore?”

Harry knows this is dangerous territory. The heat coming off of Malfoy’s body seems to engulf him, trying to smother him to death. His thoughts get blurry and, for a moment, he wonders if he’s the one holding Malfoy up or if it’s the other way around.

“They don’t,” Harry says quietly. He waits for Malfoy to press further, to ask him more questions, and when he doesn’t Harry is at a loss. “I don’t leave the house enough for them to do so, anyways.”

That’s the second most pathetic thing he’s ever said. And Malfoy’s there to hear it. Again.

“Surely your friends visit you, then?” Malfoy presses. It doesn’t sound like he’s taunting Harry.

“I…” Harry’s stomach tightens. “Yes. Sometimes.”

It’s not, in all fairness, a complete and utter lie. Ron and Hermione visit, or at least Ron does, once a week. Neville came over last summer before he left for Brazil and Harry’s pretty sure Luna’s been in Grimmauld Place at least twice. Therefore, Harry is not lying when he says he sometimes gets visits from his friends. He didn’t claim it was often— _that_ would have been a lie.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Malfoy says when his knees wobble under him a second time.

Malfoy allows Harry to half-drag him and half-walk him to the chair without protesting. Harry grabs him by the elbow and guides him down, his own hand slipping lower and lower down Malfoy’s arm until Harry’s holding his hand instead of his forearm. Malfoy’s hand feels soft and warm in Harry’s. Harry feels self-conscious of the callousness of his own, earned by working in the Dursleys garden during the summers and holding too tightly to his broomstick when he flies.

Malfoy gives his hand a squeeze. Harry lets himself breathe through his nose again, being instantly rewarded by the smell of lavender that surrounds Malfoy like an aura. He finds himself squeezing Malfoy’s hand back, his heart beating so hard there’s no way Malfoy can’t feel it pumping blood furiously into the tips of Harry’s fingers. There’s no way Malfoy can’t hear it echoing off the walls of the living room.

And then Malfoy retrieves his hand to push the hair out of his eyes and the moment dissolves.

“I have to use the loo,” Harry blurts out, already making an escape towards the stairs.

If Malfoy finds it strange that Harry’s going all the way to the second-floor bathroom when there’s a perfectly functioning one downstairs he doesn’t say so.

Instead, “Too much information, Potter. I don’t need a detailed report of your bowel movements.”

Once he’s inside the bathroom, Harry locks the door and casts a Muffliato with so much might his wand twitches in his hand. He has to hold onto the sink with both hands to keep from swaying to the side, his fingers clutching the basin so tightly they hurt.

The mirror shows him the violent blush that has taken over his face, making him look insolated. Harry looks away from his reflection as he slips his hand past the waistband of his pants, suddenly too ashamed to look at himself, and wraps his hand around his cock. He’s not even hard, but it doesn’t take long for him to get there—or rather, not as long as it usually takes him when he’s jerking off before his afternoon nap.

He bites into his own fist as he comes, hard enough that when he pulls his hand away from his mouth the skin is bruised where his teeth have scraped it. He stares dumbly at it for a moment, his heart drumming against his chest while simultaneously trying to leap out of his throat.

Touch starved. That’s what he is. It’s been too long since he’s had a good shag and being so close to another human being—even if they’re Malfoy—is only bound to make his body react in unpredictable ways.

It’s fine, Harry tells himself. It’s not like he was thinking of Malfoy while he was having a wank. The day that happens is the day he’ll voluntarily commit himself to St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey Ward where he’ll have a blast with other wizards who’ve also gone mad. He didn’t think about Malfoy. In fact, Harry wasn’t thinking at all. He was too busy focusing on the warmth travelling through his body to even spare Malfoy a second thought. It’s _fine_.

Everything is just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) drink water, eat something, don't go out of your house if you don't have to.


	6. 6

**6**

Harry wakes up on time the next morning to give Malfoy his stupid Magi-Me-More pills, crawling back into bed as soon as he’s made sure the git’s swallowed them—chased down with water this time after Malfoy’s tantrum—and falling asleep again until Kreacher knocks on his bedroom door to announce that lunch is ready.

After making his way downstairs in complete silence, Harry stands outside the kitchen, out of view, wondering why on earth Kreacher is talking to himself out loud. It’s not unheard of—he’s caught Kreacher monologuing about his mistress more than once—but the tone of today’s blabber makes Harry pause. He stands there, eavesdropping, and tries not to feel like a spy in his own house.

“—terless,” Kreacher is saying. He sniffs loudly. “Kreacher is a servant.”

There’s a pause, during which Harry considers walking into the kitchen to see what all the fuss is about, and then another voice says, “I highly doubt he meant you any harm. You need to understand he’s not accustomed to our ways, Kreacher.” _Malfoy_. Harry had completely forgotten about him. “And he’s also not the brightest wizard there is, despite what everyone seems to think.”

“Kreacher is forever shamed. And that—that little Mud…” Kreacher trails off, compelled to stop by Harry’s orders not to insult his friends. He must be talking about Hermione. “But Master Malfoy understands, of course he does, because he is like Kreacher’s Mistress.”

Malfoy laughs—a loud, mirthless sound. “If you only knew,” he says. “It’ll be fine, Kreacher. You’re better off this way, even if you can’t see it yet. Things have changed and the world isn’t the way you remember it, or how you’d like it to be anymore. At least at Hogwarts you have a cause, a purpose, something to occupy your days with. Here you would have nothing.”

Hungry and irritated because he can’t piece together what they’re talking about, Harry shoulders the door open and, yawning, steps into the kitchen. Malfoy, who had been so eagerly lecturing Kreacher just a few seconds ago, falls silent. He’s wearing a soft-looking jumper, grey and black, and the same joggers he wore at St. Mungo’s. The sight of him in Muggle clothes never ceases to be a shock to Harry.

“Hello,” Harry says brightly.“What’s for lunch?”

“Soup,” Kreacher answers. His giant eyes are glossy and red-rimmed as if he’s been crying. Or chopping onions, Harry thinks. “Master Malfoy requested it, and so Kreacher has prepared three kinds.”

“ _Soup_?”

“Yes, Potter, soup,” Malfoy says, speaking to him for the first time in the day. He had been half-asleep and blessedly silent in the morning while Harry fed him his pills. “A liquid dish, typically savoury and—”

“I know what soup is,” Harry snaps. “I just can’t believe you asked for it.”

Malfoy gives him a long look. Before he can say anything back, Kreacher herds them out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where the already set table is waiting for them. This time there are no candles, but the napkins and silverware look anything but casual, which makes Harry roll his eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Kreacher is trying to get into Malfoy’s pants.

Lunch goes by quickly and silently, pretty much like every day, and it’s not nearly as awkward as Harry had expected it to be. Malfoy’s getting better at eating using only one hand, but even when he struggles Harry refrains from offering any help. He’s got the gnawing suspicion Malfoy would rather stab himself with his silver fork than let Harry feed him. Not that Harry wouldn’t stab himself if he had to feed Malfoy, because he would. Maybe he’d even stab Malfoy while he’s at it.

When they’re done eating, Harry slips quietly into the study to have some alone time, not expecting Malfoy to follow—he’s been retiring to his room after meals for the last few days—and is quite surprised to see Malfoy trailing after him. Harry was going to have a nap, but as he lays across the couch, watching Malfoy watch him, he feels too self-conscious to fall asleep in front of the other.

Grappling to find something to say, Harry suddenly remembers that Richardson is supposed to drop by later to ask Malfoy some case-related questions. Granted, it’s not the most casual topic of conversation—he’s not even sure he wants to have this conversation with Malfoy in the first place—but it feels relatively safe. Anything’s better than the oppressive, pregnant silence that has fallen over the room.

“Do you know what you’re going to say to Richardson?” Harry asks as he stretches on the couch.

Malfoy stiffens in his chair next to the couch, his shoulders tensing and drawing back into a perfect posture. “It depends on what he asks me,” he says after a while. He stares at the space above Harry’s head, looking thoughtful. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything will be over in a couple of weeks.”

“What do you mean?”

Malfoy shrugs in that one-shouldered way of his. “They don’t have any suspects. I’ll withdraw my report once Granger has seen it fit to declare me mentally and physically stable, which I’m hoping will be soon. Maybe two or three more weeks tops.”

Harry frowns, wondering if he has heard correctly. “Why would you do that? Don’t you want whoever did this to you found? If you dismiss the charges they’ll get away with it.”

“As I see it they already have. Do I need to repeat myself every two sentences, Potter? There are no suspects under custody. Richardson’s probably itching to file my case and go back to stealing Blood-flavored lollipops from children, or whatever it is Aurors do these days.”

Harry sits up on the couch, studying Malfoy’s face. “Who are you trying to protect, Malfoy?” he asks. “You don’t want them found, do you?”

“I most certainly do not,” Malfoy drawls out. “I just want this whole thing to be over with. Some of us mere mortals prefer to lead quiet lives, ideally as far away from the Ministry’s dogs as the law will allow us.”

Harry used to be one of the Ministry’s dogs. He pushes the thought away hastily.

“I lead a quiet life,” he says because he does. Or he did before Malfoy decided to show up at The Hound. “I’m a very private person.”

Malfoy’s eyes burn into his. “Because you want to, Potter. It’s not because you’ve been forced to.”

Harry bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, in an attempt to keep himself from yelling. The taste of dirty coppers fills his mouth and he thinks, _My blood tastes like a one-pound coin,_ and finds the thought strangely comforting. It’s little things like this—Malfoy’s continued assumption that Harry’s life is somewhat perfect, that he enjoys his name being in everyone’s mouths all the time, everyone tripping over themselves to get a glance at him as he walks down the street to get a pint or buy a new quill—that make Harry want to pull his hair out when they’re having a conversation.

Fighting the urge to strangle Malfoy, he says, “What if they try to attack you again? Have you thought about that?”

“I can’t say I enjoy being the newest victim of your hero complex, Potter.” Malfoy leans forward to grab his book from the coffee table that separates them, and even though his movements are quick, Harry notices the slight trembling of his hand as he picks up the paperback. He sits it on his lap and moves away from the couch, towards the big window on the far left of the room. “But to answer your question: no, I haven’t actually thought about that possibility, at all. In fact, my traumatised mind had almost completely obliterated the event from my memory until you, ever so kindly, brought it up just now.”

It takes Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise Malfoy’s being sarcastic. By the time he does, Malfoy’s cracked the book open and seems to have shifted all his attention from Harry to the Muggle novel, which makes Harry feel awfully uncomfortable when he speaks again, like he’s imposing in his own bloody house.

“Why do you always have to be so…?”

Malfoy doesn’t look up from the book. “Eloquent?” he offers. “Silver-tongued is perhaps the expression you’re after? I have been described on multiple occasions as remarkably gifted in the art of—”

“—bullshitting your way through any conversation,” Harry finishes for him. Then, because he’s an idiot, he says, “Maybe you should have gone into politics, what with that gifted mouth of yours.”

Now Malfoy’s looking at him, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face like an infection. He presses his index finger to the page, so as to resume his reading once he’s done talking. “Don’t worry, Potter. I believe my current profession allows my gifted mouth to do wonders for the community.”

Surely Malfoy doesn’t mean… But he does. Harry feels the weight of a thousand questions in his mouth, flattening his tongue, and for a fleeting moment, full of panic, Harry almost gives in to them and asks. And then… he doesn’t. He tightens the muscles of his jaw, setting it in place so hard his top molars grind against the lower ones, and wills his tongue to relax.

Malfoy shoots him one final look, loaded with things Harry can’t even begin to untangle and goes back to reading. He’s still grinning, which should be an indication to Harry that he’s joking, that he doesn’t mean what he’s just said, yet the grin on his face looks like it’s been painted there, plastered, and Harry has to force himself to look away in order to breath.

This is exactly why they don’t talk about it—it being Malfoy’s job. Harry likes to think of himself as an open-minded person. He’s fine with a lot of things Tories would most definitely not be fine with, has experimented sexually with a lot of people, some of which were not girls. Hermione even lent him some of her books about feminism—he hasn’t read them but it’s the thought that matters when it comes to these things—and he’s Harry Potter, for heaven’s sake. What can be more progressive than fighting against the most powerful blood-purist wizard of his time?

But—it’s a pretty big but, big enough to make Harry feel queasy—when it comes to Malfoy’s job he just can’t deal. He can’t stomach it. It must be the surreality of the whole thing: the idea of Malfoy, so prideful and arrogant, stooping so low as to resort to shagging strangers for money. Or it could be that Harry’s finally at that age where conservative ideas have started to form in his head without him realising it. He’s only twenty-two years old. Shouldn’t this be happening to him in, what, ten years? He always thought he’d have started to bald by the time prudeness had completely taken over him.

The Floo alarm goes off then, signalling the imminent arrival of no other than Richardson, who is, unlike Harry, sporting a receding hairline. Harry wonders briefly what Richardon’s views on issues like abortion and gay rights are, before realizing that he sounds, even to himself, bonkers.

As expected, Richardson stumps out of the Floo, wearing only his Auror badge as a uniform. It’s a quick reminder that today is Saturday, which makes Harry’s stomach clench at the thought of tomorrow being Sunday. He’s one day way from sitting at the Weasleys’ table across from Ginny.

Richardson nods at Harry. “Potter,” he says with the same interest one would use when talking to a plant. If one did, that is, talk to plants. “Mr Malfoy.”

“I, er. I’ll go get you something to drink,” Harry says. He scurries to the door, about to make his big exit when he realizes he doesn’t know what Richardson even drinks, so he turns and asks, “Tea or coffee?”

Richardson's sat on Harry’s spot on the couch. His wispy hair, or what remains of it, could have been the same colour as Harry’s is now, a thought that does not comfort Harry in the slightest. For a second, an agonizingly long second, Harry thinks he may be looking at himself in twenty years. Minus the Auror job, of course.

“Water,” Richardson replies in a gruff voice. He looks at Malfoy, lounging by the window with the closed book on his lap, and says “Come closer, Mr Malfoy. This stupid quill needs proximity to work or else it’ll just make up what it can’t hear.”

Harry’s not sure Self-Writing Quills can exactly hear, but he’s not going to voice that thought out loud. Instead, he sticks around another moment to watch Malfoy wheel closer to the couch as Richardson takes out a pad and said quill from his robes, and then slips out of the room to get Richardson’s water.

He finds Kreacher in the kitchen, polishing some old vase which Harry does not want to know the origin of. He feels stupid when he sees the house-elf, thinking he could have just asked Kreacher for the tea tray instead of fetching it himself, but at the same time, he’s relieved to have escaped from the study.

“Does Master Potter want Kreacher to serve tea?” Kreacher asks when he spots Harry coming in.

“No, no. It’s fine, Kreacher. I’ve got it.” Harry stands awkwardly in the centre of the kitchen, trying to buy himself some time. “There’s a guest. I mean, another guest, besides Malfoy.”

Kreacher looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Kreacher knows this.”

Of course, he does. “Alright. Er, well… I’m just going to get him some water then.”

“Water?” He shrieks and proceeds to jump from the chair he’s been crouching on. “The Master cannot offer a guest only water. Kreacher will serve the tea with those… those… _Muggle fingers_ Master Malfoy enjoys so much!”

Harry’s grip on reality is being tested again. “It’s okay, Kreacher. I don’t think Richardson’s the type of lad who’d appreciate them.” He grabs two tall glasses from one of the cabinets and a jug of water from the fridge and sets them on a tray. He pauses. “Do you really think Malfoy enjoys them?”

Kreacher clutches the vase to his chest. “Kreacher forgot to clean Hoot’s cage this morning,” he says and disappears with a loud crack.

Harry stands there, the tea tray in his hands growing heavier by the minute, and decides to make as though the conversation never happened. He decides to obliterate it from his memory as he walks back to the study as slowly as he can because _one_ , he doesn’t fancy spilling water all over the hardwood floor and _two_ , he’s pretty sure Richardson’s voice, which can be heard all the way from the kitchen, is harsher than usual.

He doesn’t knock—the knocking rule only applies to Kreacher—and is met with quite a sight as he enters the study. The Self-Writing Quill Richardson mentioned is scribbling on a pad on the coffee table so fast that it’s become a blur. Richardson’s face is red. whereas Malfoy’s… Malfoy looks like he’s seen better days. They’re both sitting opposite to each other, the coffee table separating them and also preventing Richardson from reaching over and strangling Malfoy to death. Or so Harry gathers from the angry frown the Auror’s face is twisted into.

“Uh.” He clears his throat loudly. Richardson looks up at him and grimaces, but Malfoy’s eyes stay fixed on the Auror. “I brought you some water.” He sets it down on the coffee table and lingers there for a bit. “I… Would you like some—”

Richardson shakes his head. His hair follows the motion, pathetically. “No. If you’d be so kind as to grant us a few more minutes, Potter.”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t miss the way Malfoy’s cheek twitches when he leaves the room.

Harry busies himself in the diving room by making up a mental to-do list for the next few days. Tomorrow is lunch at the Burrow and Harry hates showing up empty-handed, especially after he and Ginny decided to call it quits, so he’s going to ask Kreacher to bake some Treacle Tart or some of that Blancmange he prepared for Malfoy’s feast a couple of days ago. Harry also has to remind Hermione of that owl she was supposed to send Harry with the details of Malfoy’s appointments and which never arrived.

He should, now that he forces himself to think about it, reply to McGonagall’s letter at some point too. He’s sat down at his desk to do it more than once, he’s even scribbled down a few lines— _Dear Professor_ , no, _Dear Headmistress_. No. _Dear Minerva_. Definitely not—but Harry just doesn’t know what to write.

He feels worse about the Hogwarts fiasco than the Auror disaster, which for him it’s really saying something. He knows he should apologize. He should beg for his job back. He should... But he doesn’t want to, is the thing. The worst part of it all is not the mountain of letters Harry keeps avoiding or the commitments he’s been begging out of for months. The worst part is the feeling he gets every morning when he wakes up, that rush of pure denial that sweeps over him as he tells himself that this isn’t his life, this can’t be his life. However, when Harry climbs out of bed every morning, he knows that it is. And it hurts so badly he knows, he just knows, that if he lets himself break there will be no coming back from it. There’s no coming back from that sort of insanity.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the boom of Richardson’s voice coming from the study. Even though the door is closed, his words slip under the crack of the door all the way to Harry’s ears.

“ _Then, by all means, do so!_ ”

Harry walks back to the study, this time making sure he knocks before pushing the door open. As he slips inside the flames in the Floo die down, which means he’s barely missed Richardson’s exit.

Malfoy’s sitting on the chair looking miserable. At least that’s how Harry chooses to interpret his sulking. He’s holding an envelope in his good hand, tightly enough that the paper looks wrinkled and almost worn. When he sees Harry he stuffs the paper into the book, looking like he’d rather die than let Harry get more than a vague glance at it.

“That went well,” Malfoy says wryly.

Harry laughs a bit, a nervous cackle that makes Malfoy’s eyebrows do that annoying thing they always do when Harry says something stupid. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” He hovers at the doorway, unsure of where exactly he should put his own body. “Should I leave you alone to finish your brooding?”

Malfoy gives him a funny look, head slightly tilted to the side, elbows on the armrests of his chair. “I need a drink. Let’s have a drink, Potter.”

Harry’s hit with a sensation of déjà-vu so strong he almost staggers forwards with the force of it. Weren’t those Ron’s exact same words many weeks ago, in this very study? Harry’s surprise must show on his face because Malfoy lets out a long laugh, head tilted back and eyes closed. It leaves Harry feeling some sort of way. He doesn’t think he’s ever made Malfoy laugh like that before.

He really needs a drink.

“Okay,” Harry says after Malfoy’s laughter has died down. “One shot, Malfoy. No more.”

Malfoy seems surprised by Harry’s words. “Are you seriously offering me alcohol?”

Harry Summons the Firewhiskey bottle from the cabinet and transfigures the two glasses he brought in before for Richardson and Malfoy into shot glasses. Malfoy’s eyes follow him as he sits down on the couch and pours two fingers of whiskey into Malfoy’s glass and three into his own.

He pats the empty side of the couch. “You may as well get off that chair if you’re going to be drinking, Malfoy. It’s bad enough that I’m letting you drink whiskey at tea time without you sitting there looking like you’re fresh out of St Mungo’s.”

“I thought you said there was nothing wrong with needing a chair to get around, Potter,” Malfoy says but still does as he’s told. He plops down on the other end of the couch and puts his feet up in the coffee table. “Do wheelchair users not drink?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says as he hands the drink over to Malfoy. He’s already starting to regret this. “Merlin, do you ever stop being a prat?”

“No. I’m afraid it’s a full-time job,” Malfoy says. He brings his drink to his nose and sniffs it. “This isn’t regular Firewhiskey, is it, Potter?”

Harry flushes. “Uh, no. It’s, er. It’s a limited edition.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “How limited?”

“I don’t—It’s… For fuck’s sake, _fine_. It’s an only bottle kind of edition, you bloody git.” Harry takes a long sip to hide his embarrassment. “I didn’t ask for it, Malfoy. It was a gift.”

“A gift,” Malfoy echoes in an amused voice. He sniffs his drink again, probably just to get on Harry’s last nerve. Then, after another ten seconds of looking at it, he takes a small sip. “Oh.”

Harry grins. “It’s good, innit?”

Malfoy huffs. “Good? Your poor vocabulary skills never cease to amaze me. This is… It’s more than good.” He takes another sip. Harry notices the way his shoulders seem to relax, his posture not as rigid as before. He’s not slouching—Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Malfoy slouch in his life—but there’s a calmness about him that was not there before.

“Don’t tell Hermione about this next time you see her, Malfoy. I mean it. She’ll have my head on a spike if she finds out.”

“Harry Potter’s head on a spike,” Malfoy muses. “That’s a sight I’d pay a few galleons to see.”

“Only a few galleons?”

“Is that the part of my statement that horrifies you, Potter? The ticket fee I’d be charged with to see your mutilated head on a stick?”

Harry goes to take another sip of his drink and finds it empty. He pours himself another one because it’s Saturday and because Malfoy’s barely sipped his, which means it’s going to be a while before they’re done talking and it’s rude to stare at others while they drink.

“What do Muggles do while they drink?” Malfoy asks suddenly, making Harry sputter. He rolls his eyes at Harry’s flabbergasted face. “I’m asking because I find their entertainment options so limited I can’t understand how they can bear to live so long.”

“Uh… I’m pretty sure they just talk,” Harry says cautiously. “They play games, sometimes.”

Malfoy’s eyes sparkle at that. “What kind of games?”

“Beer pong,” Harry says. He watched an American film last summer where the protagonist went to a fraternity party. “Truth or Dare. I don’t know, Charades?”

“Truth or Dare,” Malfoy repeats as if he’s tasting the words. “What does that entail, exactly?”

Harry can’t _not_ roll his eyes at that. “What do you think? Muggles are pretty straight forward with the names they give things.” When Malfoy doesn’t reply, Harry adds, “You ask the person you’re playing with to choose between Truth or Dare. If they pick Truth then you ask them a question and they can’t answer with a lie. If they pick Dare then—”

“They get a dare,” Malfoy finishes for him. “And how do Muggles know when people are telling the truth?”

“I suppose they don’t.” Harry’s never thought about it before. “It’s not like they have Veritaserum or anything like that. I figure they just trust each other not to lie.”

“Let’s do it, Potter.”

“Let’s do what?”

“Let’s trust each other,” Malfoy says dramatically. He takes a long sip of his Firewhiskey and shakes his head at Harry’s expression. “Let’s play the game, idiot.”

Harry pinches his arm discreetly. He’s not dreaming— _if_ the pain he feels tingling on his skin is to be trusted. He’s also eighty-per cent sure the Malfoy sitting beside him on the couch is the real Malfoy. There is, however, a twenty-per cent chance that the person sipping Firewhiskey next to him is actually not The Real Malfoy, but The Impostor. Harry never did let go of that theory.

“Why?”

It seems like a validate question.

Malfoy doesn’t seem to think so. “I know this must come as a blow to your enormous ego, Potter, but all your acquaintances have been lying to you when they’ve told you that your company is pleasant all on its own.”

“I’m not—They have never said—”

“I am bored out of my bloody mind,” Malfoy cuts him off. “Do you want me to lose it? Is that what you want, Potter?”

 _I’m the one going mad_ , Harry thinks. “Fine,” he says, already pouring himself a third shot. There’s no way he’ll survive this if he’s sober. “Should I begin?”

Malfoy pretends to consider this. “No. I think I’ll do you the honour of going first.” He regards Harry for a moment. “And, just to be perfectly clear, I can ask you anything?”

Merlin. Harry knew this was a bad idea. Perhaps Malfoy’s been right all along, perhaps Harry is indeed an imbecile and an idiot and all the colourful adjectives Malfoy enjoys calling him. There is no other explanation to why Harry has agreed to play Truth or Dare with this… this… _git._

“I guess so.”

Malfoy smirks at him, the absolute bastard. “Truth or Dare, Potter?”

“Truth,” Harry says automatically. There’s nothing he’d like less than to be at Malfoy’s beck and call. Besides, Harry never lies. This should be easy.

“Have you ever fancied Granger?”

Harry spills half his drink all over himself. “What the— _of course_ not! What the fuck? Why on Earth would you think that?” The image Malfoy’s question conjures in his mind makes him shudder. He loves Hermione to death, he’d die for her, but he’d also rather die than shag her. Harry resists the urge to gag. “She’s my best friend! She’s—she’s married to my other best friend!”

Malfoy doesn’t seem fazed. He wiggles his sock-covered toes. “I always wanted to know.”

“Well now you do,” Harry snaps. He dries the alcohol off of his clothes with his wand and tries to forget Malfoy’s question altogether. After the silence has stretched on for a while Harry realizes it’s his turn to ask. He does so through gritted teeth. “Truth or Dare, Malfoy?”

“Truth.”

 _Of course_ , Harry thinks. He panics for a second because Malfoy’s looking at him expectantly and Harry has no clue what to ask him. There are so many things Harry wants to know, most of them terribly personal and bordering on rude, that he can’t just pick one off the top of his head.

“Why do you think Muggles are so beneath you?” he settles for.

Malfoy doesn’t seem offended by the question, which makes Harry slightly relax. “They don’t have magic,” he says like it’s the only possible answer to that question. He glances at Harry’s face before continuing. “Wizards and witches shouldn’t have to hide from people who have to hand-wash their dishes because they can’t cast spells. It’s… degrading. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I wash my dishes by hand sometimes,” Harry replies. He regrets asking the question. Malfoy sounds like Harry imagines Grindelwald did. “And hiding isn’t so bad. I think…”

Malfoy sips his drink. “Don’t hurt yourself, Potter.”

Harry ignores him. “I think it’s better they don’t know magic exists. I don’t expect you to understand what I mean because you’ve always known magic’s real and that you’re a wizard. I just…” He fumbles with his words. He’s not even sure why he’s bothering telling Malfoy all this when Harry knows Malfoy won’t understand a word he says. “I know what not knowing is like and I can’t imagine… I guess finding out magic is real but that I’ll never be able to use it would be, I don’t know, devastating?”

Harry feels very small all of a sudden. He thinks about being ten, a year before he met Hagrid and learnt the truth about his parents and himself, and he can’t shake off the feeling that if he’d known magic was real back then it would have destroyed him. In a way—maybe in more than one way, maybe in all possible ways—magic saved his life. Perhaps the only reason he’s not completely crazy is that he spent so much time away from the Dursleys at Hogwarts.

Malfoy’s expression is unreadable. “What about Squibs, then? Should they just off themselves, Potter?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. At all. Squibs are, er. They’re—”

“They’re depressed creatures who lead very depressing lives, is that what you were going to say?”

“No, of course not!” Harry says heatedly. “Maybe they can’t do magic but it’s not like their lives are doomed because of it. They still have music and art and… stuff. Besides, you’re the one who thinks magic makes us superior to everyone else.”

Malfoy tsks softly. “I didn’t say that. I said I found it humiliating that we have to hide from people who don’t have magic.”

“You also didn’t deny that you consider Muggles to be beneath you!”

“I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one,” Malfoy says slowly. He must sense that Harry’s becoming increasingly passionate about the topic. “Should we move on to the next question?”

“It’s your turn to choose,” Harry says. He decides to put his drink down. Three shots in the span of thirty minutes are too much, even for him. He refuses to feel hurt by Malfoy’s words.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s _your_ turn, Potter.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“Truth,” Harry says.

Unlike Harry, who spent more than ten minutes trying to choose a question, Malfoy seems to already have a list of things to ask Harry inside his head. He does look like someone who enjoys making lists, so Harry can’t say he’s too surprised by it.

“What’s your biggest regret?”

Harry’s thankful he put his drink down or else he’d be soaked in it. “Excuse me?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes at him. “I know it must be incredibly hard for you to come up with an answer to that question, considering how everything you do is always the right thing to do. Nevertheless, you are made of flesh and bone. At least I would hope so,” he adds, faking worry. “There must be something you regret doing. Or saying.”

Indignation makes Harry’s voice higher than usual. “Of course I have regrets, Malfoy. Do you honestly think I live my life as if I’ve never fucked up? Because I don’t.”

Malfoy shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I…” Harry closes his eyes. He sees Sirius’s face staring back at him, forever frozen in time. Suddenly his throat feels very tight. “I regret letting myself be tricked by Voldemort at the end of Fifth year,” he says, feeling all the air rush out of his lungs as he does so.

To his surprise, Malfoy only nods, like he knew that’d be Harry’s answer all along. He can’t have, Harry reasons, because not even Harry did until he said it out loud. He wonders if Malfoy even knows what Harry’s talking about, but then he reasons that Malfoy must know because his father was there. In fact, Lucius had played an active part in the whole thing. He was sent to Azkaban because of it.

In a strange way, Harry’s thankful for Malfoy’s silence. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t look at Harry with pity or offer any kind words. Malfoy just sits there, silent and respectful, sipping what little is left of his whiskey and treating Harry the same way he’s always treated him. Malfoy apologizing on his dead father’s behalf would not only feel wrong. It would _be_ wrong.

So much for keeping things light, Harry thinks.

“What’s yours?” Harry asks on a whim.

Malfoy seems startled, not so much by the question itself but by the sound of Harry’s voice. They must have been sitting in silence for a while.

“I didn’t say I picked Truth again, Potter,” Malfoy says when he’s regained some control. Harry feels reassured. There’s no pity in Malfoy’s voice. Nothing’s changed between them.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I can come up with something painful and disgusting for you to do as a dare.”

Malfoy puts his empty glass on the table. He draws his knees to his chest as if bracing himself. “I think I’d better go with Truth, then.”

“So, biggest regret?” Harry asks again. “I know you must have a bunch to choose from, so I guess I’ll give you a minute to think of an answer.”

Malfoy laughs. Again, the sound does something to Harry’s stomach. “For once you are absolutely right, Potter,” he says, still smiling, but there’s an edge to his smile that wasn’t there before. Now that his hand is free Malfoy uses it to stroke his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. Finally, after what to Harry feels like an eternity, he calmly says, “You’re not allowed to ask me the same question I just asked you.”

“Oh, come _on_.” The worst part, Harry thinks bitterly as he tries to repress the urge to kick Malfoy’s teeth in, is that the bastard’s right. “I don’t know what to ask.”

Malfoy makes a swift motion with his hand, flicking his wrist. “Nothing is off-limits, Potter. _I_ certainly won’t be holding back with my next question so I’d advise you to do the same.”

Harry licks his lips. His mouth feels really dry all of a sudden. “How…” He stops, looking sideways at Malfoy. “How did you, er, you know.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Potter. I’ve never quite mastered the Occlumency thing, so you’ll have to use your words like a big boy.”

“How did you become an escort?” Harry blurts out. He leans forward and pours himself another shot. It burns his throat when he gulps it down, but Harry welcomes the sensation. He stares at his shoes, wanting to avoid Malfoy’s eyes as long as possible. “I mean, you’ve always had money, haven’t you? I don’t… I think it’s, uh, cool if that’s what you want to do. Well, obviously it’s not. I mean—”

“I’ll tell you if you pour me another one,” Malfoy says. Harry looks up at him in pure disbelief because Malfoy doesn’t sound surprised or upset by Harry’s question. He looks… like he’d been expecting it. “Granger won’t find out unless you tell her.”

Harry blinks. “You’re not supposed to be drinking at all.”

“Do I look like I’m drunk?” Malfoy asks. If anybody is drunk it’s Harry, whose fourth shot is starting to catch up to him. “Don’t be a selfish prat, Potter, pour up.”

Then, Harry does something really, really stupid: he pours Malfoy another shot.

“I don’t—” Harry starts as he watches Malfoy grab his drink and sip it. “Spare me the details, alright? Just. _Why_?”

Malfoy lets out a laugh. “I’d never have thought you were such a prude, Potter.”

Harry bristles at the comment. “I’m not,” he says forcefully. He _isn’t_. “I just don’t want to hear anything that may shatter my psyche.”

“Very well then.” Malfoy’s pink tongue darts over his lower lip, making Harry think he may not be the only one with a dry mouth right now. “I couldn’t find any other job.”

“I thought we were going to be honest, Malfoy.” Harry’s having a hard time looking away from Malfoy’s mouth. It must be the alcohol. “I’ll ask you something else if you don’t want to answer that. I don’t even know why I asked.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Believe what you want, then.”

“You can’t be serious.” Harry takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. The back of his skull is starting to throb unpleasantly. “What do you mean, you couldn’t find a job? You got good grades, you were even a Prefect. Do you honestly expect me to believe no one wanted to hire you after Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy replies with an amused smile. It irks Harry how perfectly calm he’s being about the whole thing. He looks and sounds as though he’s practised this conversation for months, whereas Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been more upset and out of his comfort zone. “That’s exactly what I’m expecting you to believe because it’s the truth.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s entertain that stupid idea. What field did you want to go into? Did you get Troll on all your N.E.W.T’s or something?”

“I never got around to taking them.”

Harry chokes on air. “What?” He coughs into his hand until his eyes water. After a while, he manages to wheeze out, “Why not?”

Malfoy looks at him for a long time. He’s waiting for Harry to say something, sipping his drink and pursing his lips at Harry’s silence. Harry never would have thought Malfoy would skip his N.E.W.T’s. He’d always been great at Potions, almost as good as Hermione, and Harry remembers all those lessons he spent watching Malfoy out of the corner of his eye during Sixth year. He was sharp, intuitive, smart. He was good.

“I don’t know why I expected you to remember it when it’s so obvious your brain retains only the most basic information, Potter,” Malfoy says in an acrid voice.”I spent the first year after the war in Azkaban. Surprisingly, the Dementors there didn’t care about whether or not I wanted to resume my education.” He pauses for a second. “Come to think of it, isn’t that quite rude of them?”

Harry feels shame rising inside him, a wave so strong it threatens to pull him under. He’d forgotten all about Malfoy’s sentence. It’s not like Harry doesn’t know what happened after the trial was over. He had stayed right until the Wizengamot voted and delivered the sentence but after that… Harry had taken Ginny’s hand and dragged her out of the room. Hermione and Ron had followed them outside not even a beat after.

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably at the memory. He feels the same way he used to when Snape would call him out on class—ashamed but also upset, too much like a child being told off. He thinks he understands now what Malfoy meant when he made that comment about Harry wearing jeans to his trial. _It was just another day to you._

“You could have taken them after you got out,” Harry tries to amend. “Hermione went back to Hogwarts after the war. I’m sure McGonagall would have let you return, too.”

A strange sound leaves Malfoy’s mouth, a hybrid between a snort and a cackle. “Do you honestly think I could have gone back to Hogwarts, Potter?” He’s getting angry. Harry sees the way he struggles to keep it out of his face, how he’s trying to laugh and taunt Harry, but there’s something bubbling under the surface. Indignation. “I would have been murdered in my bed the first night.”

“That’s not true, Malfoy. The war was over. No one—”

“The war’s never going to be over,” Malfoy snaps. He’s holding the glass so tightly Harry fears it may shatter in his hand. “It’s bloody everywhere, all the time.”

Harry wonders if maybe Malfoy’s had too much to drink. “It’s been four years,” he says slowly, hating himself a little for talking to Malfoy like he’s a child but, at the same time, not being able to stop. “The war’s been over for a while now.”

“I used to think so, too. I’d tell myself that while I was… away.” Malfoy stares at his drink. “But it wasn’t the truth, Potter. You should know that better than anyone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Kingsley wants to build you and your friends a statue. There’ll be an unveiling ceremony next year when the time’s right.” _The war anniversary_ , Harry thinks. The thought leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. “It’ll stand where the Magic is Might statue used to be.”

“They already replaced the Magic is Might statue. Years ago.”

Malfoy nods. “They stored it away and built a hideous new one in its place.”

“Stored it away?” Harry asks, confusion taking over his brain. “Didn’t they destroy it?”

“Why would they? It’s part of history.”

Of course Malfoy would hate to see such a beautiful and inspiring monument destroyed.

“What does that have to do with anything, Malfoy? And how do you even know about this?”

“I, unlike you, read the _Prophet_ from time to time,” Malfoy says. “It means that they’re building Granger, Weasley, and you a bloody statue, which will be placed in the entry hall of the Ministry for every living creature to witness as they walk inside the building. Do I need to explain what that means or do you think you can figure it out on your own, despite your pea-sized brain, Potter?”

“Fuck off,” Harry bites back. He’s suddenly ashamed of his own shame, angry at the fact that for a second he almost pitied Malfoy. “Stop talking in fucking riddles! What does it matter if they build the statue? There are dozens of those already.”

Malfoy tilts his glass, watching the whiskey swirl and steam. “People build statues because they don’t want to forget the past. No one wants to forget about the war, Potter. That’s why you get papped and stopped for autographs on the street even though it’s been four sodding years. Because if they let go, if they truly let go, then…”

“Then it’d mean the dead are truly dead,” Harry finds himself saying. He shakes his head to clear it. “Forgetting is not an option, Malfoy. The war happened and people were murdered. I don’t want to forget about the people I’ve lost. I don’t think anyone wants to, either.”

“I’d forget if I could,” Malfoy says, and when he looks at him Harry knows he’s telling the truth. He can feel it. “I’d Obliviate myself.”

Harry’s anger returns, hot and vicious. Who has Malfoy lost to the war? Both his parents made it out alive. Even Crabbe could have lived if he hadn’t been such an idiot. Is Malfoy upset his aunt died? Harry has a hard time thinking anyone in their right mind could miss Bellatrix, but she _was_ his aunt.

“Well, too bad it’s illegal.” Harry sits up straight and looks away from Malfoy’s face, trying to sober up a little. He doesn’t want to talk about the war anymore, so he says, “There are many apprenticeships that don’t ask for N.E.W.T’s. Anything could have been better than… than…”

Malfoy gives him a withering look. “No one would have me. I applied for two dozen apprenticeships and got turned down every single time. I tried everything. Not even Tom would hire me, the fucking bastard.”

“Tom? As in Tom from The Leaky Cauldron? Why would you—I mean, _you_? A waiter?”

“Your brain is slower than usual today, Potter. I’ve just told you I was being turned down everywhere. My options were limited.” He laughs again. “In a way, I’m glad that one didn’t work out. I don’t think I’d have lasted long there.”

Harry frowns. “Why wouldn’t he hire you?”

Malfoy looks at him in disbelief. “Why would he? I’m a convicted Death Eater, Potter. It’d be bad for business, he said.”

“So what, you gave up, just like that?”

“I was hungry,” Malfoy spits out, slamming his glass down on the table hard enough for a crack to appear at the side. “There was nothing else to do.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you were starving, Malfoy. You have enough money in Gringotts to last your family five more generations and you expect me to believe you were going hungry?”

“Had,” Malfoy says quietly.

“Pardon?”

“I had money,” Malfoy repeats. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Apparently seizing the Manor wasn’t enough for the Ministry.”

“That’s bullshit. The Ministry wouldn’t take all your money, Malfoy.” Harry struggles to remember if any financial retribution was mentioned at the trial. He can’t remember. “That’s illegal,” he says, although he has no real way of knowing if what he’s saying is true.

Malfoy runs his fingers over the crack on the glass.“They didn’t take it all of it, only ninety-five per cent of everything my family owns. _Owned_.” He licks his lips. “I bet they’re using my gold to pay for your fucking statue, Potter. I bet that’s exactly what they’re doing.”

Harry tries to think of something to say. “Well, if they didn’t take all of it then that means you still had some left when you got out of Azkaban, right? Did you just burn through it on the first month or what?”

At that, Malfoy goes quiet. His finger is brushing against the broken glass, asking to be cut. Harry feels tempted to pour himself another whiskey, but his stomach is so upset after talking about the war he’ll probably end up throwing up.

“Listen, let’s just call it a night,” Harry says, rubbing his temples to try and ease the headache pulsating inside his skull. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Fuck you, now it’s _my_ turn to ask you something.”

“Malfoy,” Harry starts but goes silent when he sees the way Malfoy’s looking at him. His jaw is clenched so tight the veins in his neck are popping up. He looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

“I swear on Morgana’s tits, Potter, if you back out of this game now I’ll hex you to death,” he grits out. “I swear I will.”

 _You don’t have a wand_ , Harry thinks. Another look at Malfoy’s face tells him that’s definitely not the wisest thing to say. He looks like he’s ready to smash the bottle of Firewhiskey on Harry’s head.

“Fine. But after this round, we’re done.”

Malfoy relaxes a bit, leaning back against the couch. “Truth or Dare?” he asks.

It’s a formality. He knows Harry’s going to pick Truth. Still, Harry plays along. “Truth, Malfoy.”

“Why did you end things with Ginevra Weasley?”

Harry should have seen it coming. He’s always known Malfoy loves gossip, but he never thought he’d be interested in Harry’s life. It’s not a surprise Malfoy knows about his breakup with Ginny, given the Prophet wrote at least fifteen articles about it in the first week. Of course, he’d want the inside scoop, being Malfoy and all. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever disliked him more than he does now.

“It wasn’t working anymore,” Harry says. _True_. “We both agreed it was for the best.” _False_.

“Well, why wasn’t it working?” Malfoy asks with a patience Harry didn’t think he had in him.

“We both worked too much, saw each other too little. We wanted different things out of life,” he says and shrugs. “It’s fine now.”

It is fine and it is the truth—at least, as close to the truth as Harry wants to get into with Malfoy.

Even though they barely saw each other—despite living together— after Ginny left Harry had felt her absence like an amputated limb. There had been too many Saturday mornings when he’d wake up early and cook breakfast for both of them only to realize halfway through that Ginny wasn’t going to come down the stairs or walk out of the bathroom because she didn’t live there anymore. She had been Harry’s first love—something she had come to resent towards the end.

“They said she cheated,” Malfoy says when the silence has stretched on for too long.

Harry remembers Ron’s aggravated face when, only a week after he and Ginny had called it quits, Barnabas Cuffe had given authorisation for the _Prophet_ to publish an article about Ginny’s close relationship with her coach.

Harry hadn’t read the article or seen the pictures, but he knew it was bullshit the second Ron told him about it. Ginny had owled him later that day, confirming Harry’s suspicions, and that had been the end of it for him. Everyone else could believe what they wanted to believe, which in his experience was always the craziest version of things, but Harry knew Ginny. He knows her.

If someone had ruined things for them, it had been Harry.

“She didn’t,” Harry says. “What do you care anyway? Why waste your last question on that?”

Malfoy remains unfazed by Harry’s tone. “Should I have asked about your job instead?”

“Well, what about it?” Harry demands, praying to whatever is out there that Malfoy can’t hear the trembling in his voice. His job situation is still a sore spot, even more so than Ginny. _Oh, the irony of it all_ , Harry thinks. “Are you hoping to sell my dirty secrets to the _Prophet_ once you’re free to leave? Is that it?”

“Granger mentioned it in passing,” Malfoy says. His left hand is resting on the space between them, the contrast of his pale skin against the dark fabric of the cushion makes Harry’s head throb again painfully. “She might have implied you could use the distraction of putting up with me.”

Harry closes his eyes. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. Hermione had been the most disapproving when Harry had let his friends know he was quitting his teaching job. Her response had been a three-page letter detailing Harry’s stupidity and stubbornness, urging him to reconsider, and finally saying that she would help Harry find another job if he found teaching so horribly tedious. Well, Harry thinks bitterly, it looks like she’s found him one alright. Taking care of Malfoy certainly takes up most of his bloody time, if not all of it. Harry can’t help but wonder if she was telling the truth when she told him there were no other options available for Malfoy.

“Game’s over,” Harry says tiredly. “I don’t have to answer your questions anymore.”

“Of course you don’t. I was simply making conversation, Potter.” Harry can hear him moving around but he doesn’t open his eyes to see what he’s doing. Tentatively, Malfoy says, “You shouldn’t spend the night here. It’s bad for your neck.”

“Okay,” Harry says but doesn’t move.

“I mean it, Potter.”

At that, Harry opens his eyes. “Fine. Is there something on my face, Malfoy?”

Malfoy frowns in concentration. “Yes, there is. You look stupider than usual. Perhaps you’ve been hit with a Stupidity spell or something.”

“Stupidity spell? Is that a real thing?”

“No, Potter.”

The drumming inside his skull intensifies and Harry tries not to wince at the pain he feels concentrating on his temples. He shouldn’t have drunk so much without eating something first.

“You should ask Kreacher to make you some dinner,” Harry says when he realizes what time it is. God, he really needs to buy one of those Screeching Watches he saw in Diagon Alley the other day. “I’m afraid I’m too drunk to join you.”

“I’m going to bed.” He gives Harry a pointed look. “You should go, too. Big day tomorrow and all.”

“What?” Harry struggles to keep his eyes open but loses the battle before it even begins. “Big day? Are you finally leaving?”

Unexpectedly, Malfoy laughs at that. “I wish, but no. You’re going to the Weasleys’ for lunch, Potter.”

“Right,” Harry says. “I hadn’t forgotten.”

“I’m sure you hadn’t,” Malfoy says, clearly entertaining him. “Goodnight.”

Harry’s brain is a fogged mess. If he were sober he’d probably be startled by Malfoy’s civil departure. They’ve been living together for almost a week and not once has Malfoy wished him goodnight. In fact, Harry’s pretty sure Malfoy hasn’t wished him anything pleasant since their paths crossed again.

By the time Harry even thinks about saying it back Malfoy’s long gone. Harry closes his eyes and ignores the already present stiffness in his neck, deciding that he’ll deal with it all in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely anon who keeps reminding me to post this I AM SORRY okay??? This is what happens when you have more than one WIP going on.   
> Also, drink water!!!!!!!!!!!! <3


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